Chemical Analysis
by Tristan-the-Dreamer
Summary: Some changes cannot be easily made; that is what friends are for. Rated for language and drug references. COMPLETE!
1. Revelation

A/N: What was originally going to be a one-shot is now officially the journey of Holmes, leaving one of his more harmful vices and heading for...? The first chapter is set during Granada Musgrave, otherwise it's not in any particular case. And thank you Bowen Cate. ^^

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"Holmes?" I rapped on his door, smiling and adjusting my bowtie. He might think we were going to have a miserable time, but I was determined to make him see the light. Surely he would enjoy dinner, and the chance to dazzle all with his skills.

When there was no answer I pushed open the door. I found him in a chair—preparing to fill the syringe. My heart dropped and I sagged against the doorframe. "Why?" I burst out, causing him to jump.

"Why?" He snapped, meeting my gaze as he deliberately drew a dose. "Because I'm ill, I'm bored, and there's nothing better to do."

"Nothing better to--I don't understand!" I choked. "Who do you think I am? Come to me when you're ill, I'm a doctor and your friend…damn it, Holmes, I just don't understand! Why, why, when will you stop? It makes me sick myself! I cannot stand this disappointment any longer."

Holmes was quiet a minute. "You're disappointed in me?"

"In a way, yes." I walked to his chair and held out my hand.

He looked at me for a long moment and I feared I would be sick with the strain, but in the end he quietly placed the needle in my palm.

"Thank you, Holmes." My knees nearly gave out from under me as I closed my hand over the syringe and put it on the mantel for the moment, 'til I would find a better way to dispose of it. "I know you're ill, I know you're miserable. So will you please tell me what I can do to help?"

"No. Watson, wait—it's not that I don't trust you. I just hate to…impose."

"You are so blind when it comes to this, always," I sighed. "Will you never understand? I want to take care of you!"

"I know you do, Watson." He smiled sadly at me. "But I'm not a child; I can take care of myself."

"In many ways, yes, you can. But everyone has their weak points, and when it comes to them…sometimes we need help. Listen, Holmes, you know the saying, iron sharpens iron?"

"Yes."

"And you know what it means."

"I do, yes." He stirred restlessly, eyes going to the mantle.

I stepped in between him and it. "One piece of iron can't sharpen itself. It takes at least two, to scrape off the imperfections and become stronger, better. It's not ridiculous for a piece of iron to need another, and it's the same for men."

He was silent, tapping his fingers rapidly.

"So will you please let me help you?" I finished in a low voice.

Holmes looked away. "I hate being ill, and this damn house is freezing, and I wish I was dead."

I heaved a sigh. "I know."

"And…"

"And?" I stiffened, my ears perking up.

"Watson, I know you're trying to help. I know you think if you just give me enough encouragement, enough support…but it's not…it's not…" he closed his eyes. "It's not a choice I have to make. It's made for me."

"How do you…?"

"You don't understand…when you're bored, Watson, you're free to control your mind, your path. You can write, you can think, this or that. With me it's different, don't you understand!" He cried out. "It's not some habit, not a choice, I HAVE no choice! You think—you think—you think I'm being a disappointment, you think I'm making a bad decision. It's not a decision! I have to take it, or I…I can't bear…it's intolerable, Watson, it's…my mind, it falls apart…I'm scared of what will happen!" He snapped out, breathing faster.

"Holmes—"

"What? There's nothing to say! It's over; it's the way things are going to be. There's no use telling me I should stop, I KNOW that already! My brain is…it's all I have. I don't want to go mad, so I can't take that risk. Watson I try, I swear, I try to keep myself occupied, but it all ends in uselessness! I end up running myself into the ground, then I'm left sitting around with nothing to do and I HAVE to use it. No, don't—don't even try to tell me I can resist. I will go mad, I know it—I can't bear it, Watson, don't look at me like that, don't, I can't bear it!"

I watched, shocked, as his nerves shredded themselves in front of my eyes and he buried his face in his hands, crying out in agony.

How could I have done this? How could my earnest intentions end up hurting the man who was my closest friend? My heart thudded in my ears and every one of his quiet sobs physically pained me.

"Holmes, I wasn't trying to be judgmental," I tried, and lay my hand on his arm.

He swatted me away, hiding his face and sniffling miserably with his cold.

I felt as if I were carved from wood—I could feel no physical sensation. _How could I have been so blind?_ I felt such a savage fool...Holmes had been going along, gamely trying to follow my impossible demands. How could I have not grasped…the overwhelming load I'd been constantly putting on his shoulders? I pulled out my handkerchief and gently brushed his wrist with it. He hesitated, then took it. There was a long, broken and heavy silence.

"I'm sorry, Holmes," I said at last, softly. "I didn't…quite realize. This…you must have been feeling pressure from me to stop at once, and…it feels impossible. Like I'm asking you to do something that just can't be done."

He nodded, still cleaning himself up.

"My dear Holmes, I can never apologize enough," I said, choking on sorrow. "I will try to be different, I don't know how exactly I should be, it's all a fog, but I will try somehow!"

He sat up, folding the handkerchief in a neat triangle. "Do you truly mean that?" He asked quietly.

I could only nod.

"Then perhaps, Watson, I can do the same," he murmured, and we clasped hands.


	2. Lost Case, not Cause

A/N: I told the truth and lied without meaning to! I am totally going to make Holmes stop this abuse, if I ever can! I'm sick of it, tired of the bad effect on him, well enough is enough for me! You look out, Holmes! So yeah, this is gonna have more chapters of varying lengths...

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"Holmes, I had something to tell you…do you have a moment?"

"Mm-hmm." He looked at me, taking the pipe from his mouth to show he was listening.

"I…have some news that will be hard for you to hear. You may be angry about it, but I must tell you."

He paused, absorbed this, then nodded. "Go on, Watson."

I tugged at my collar. "A lady came in yesterday afternoon. She needed help concerning the Scotland murder that's been plastered up in the papers every day for the last—"

"And she wanted to hire me?" Holmes leaned forward. "What made her change her mind? Speak!"

"She changed her mind because I told her to go away," I said in a low voice, unable to meet his eyes. "You were in a drugged stupor, Holmes, and in no condition to take a case."

"Where did she go?" Holmes asked numbly.

"The Yard."

He flapped his hand languidly in an expression of unspeakable despair. "I do not hold it against you, Watson. Yet I pity that soul, she will find no help at the Yard either, I fear." He took his pipe up again and smoked for some time in silence.

When I spoke, I tried to keep any hint of judgment from my voice. "May I ask why you had taken it that day?"

He glanced at me. "You may. In this particular situation, I was feeling tired; but you see, I had the most beautiful violin duet in my mind, it just came to me and I had to stay awake to write it. Hence…"

"Yes, I understand." I took a breath. "And…coffee wouldn't have kept you alert long enough?"

He shifted. "Well, I was afraid I would lose the notes…I needed something quite fast, and...there was no time to make coffee."

"Oh." A heavy tension crept into the room, and every breath felt dangerous, as if it might break something.

Holmes began to chew on the end of his pipe as he smoked, just a subtle clenching and unclenching of his jaw.

"Holmes…" I began with great trepidation, "Do you…do you really believe that music should come before your health?"

He exhaled forcefully, temporarily hiding his face in white smoke.

"Is it just possible that the long term--"

"I'm sorry, Watson," he cut me off shortly. "I do not wish to discuss this any longer."

"I quite understand." I stifled a sigh. "I'd best get some papers organized, at any rate."

I left him alone in the sitting room, lost in deep thoughts.


	3. Roots

A/N: Hmm, FF is having some trouble displaying this chapter, I'll see what I can do...

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"Watson," Holmes murmured.

I glanced over at his couch where he was laying back, eyes closed. We had been in our favorite alcove for perhaps ten or twenty minutes. I leaned on my elbow now, studying my friend's face.

"I have something to tell you, and I don't believe it has ever been told before. But I must have your strictest word, you shall not write this down in a memoir that is to be published. Do you understand?" He opened one eye and held my gaze. "You must promise, on your honor, Watson."

"On my honor, Holmes," I managed, feeling chills.

"Good. I trust you." He closed his eye again and took a breath. "The exact dates…are unimportant, but let us leave it at this: during one of my college years, I was overloaded with work. Well…how shall I boil this down? A student who had even more work than me, saw I was struggling. He took me under his wing—I thought—and said…"

Here Holmes paused, brows knitted; he took a very long breath, held it, and let it out slowly through pursed lips. "You did promise on your honor, did you not?"

"Holmes…on my life."

"On your life…" His brows raised. "…At any rate, this student was older than me, and had taken some classes I'd yet to take. So it was…I felt inferior. A difficult exam was approaching, I thought I needed to stay up for hours to study, I was rather behind..." he paused, snorting in self-derision. "I didn't mean to go into quite so much detail, Watson, I apologize for the prevarication…"

"What you want to say, Holmes, I want to hear," I said quietly.

"Nh…I find that difficult to believe." He rubbed a hand over his eyes and looked up, studying the intricate grillework. "I don't know why this came to my mind…"

"It doesn't matter, Holmes, it came, so please tell me," I coaxed, feeling worry gnaw at me. He was tempted to drift away from this discussion…

"Well…the fact of the matter is…can't you guess?"

"He showed you cocaine," I said, watching his long, nervous hands twist the edges of the towels. "And I imagine it helped you with your studies, to a degree."

"Yes. But it's not as simple as that…what I wanted to tell you, the reason for it all, is…the first time I took it."

"Oh?" I tried to sound interested even though I was feeling sick.

"Watson, I have never experienced something so amazing. My mind was sharper than it had ever been, I felt…'twas hard to believe, but I was happy. And I was able to focus extremely well, and I did pass the test. And, well…you know the rest."

I wanted so badly to point out the negatives, to say he was guilty of romanticizing this time, but something held me back. I felt that there was something I hadn't quite grasped yet in what he was saying. Looking at his face, I saw he was smiling…wistfully.

"Holmes, I have never taken cocaine, so I don't know…is it always the same effect, as the first time?"

He sighed, a desolate sound. When he spoke it was almost a groan. "No. Never. Never quite the same…never quite the same." He lay very still and then looked at me. "I suppose we should be getting back soon?"

When we had come into the Bath today Holmes had mentioned how we had all the time in the world.

"Yes, Holmes, I suppose we should."


	4. Hypocrisy

"Watson, you look exhausted." Holmes peered at me over the top of his casebook. "Shouldn't you be getting to bed? If you get much drowsier Mrs. Hudson will have you scrubbing ink off the top of that table, come the morrow."

"I am exhausted," I admitted, blinking heavy eyes and focusing my vision with great effort. "But I just got a brainstorm for a new article and…I'm being a hypocrite, aren't I?" Putting down my pen, I turned to find his grey eyes fixed upon me.

"Indeed you are, friend Watson. So what are you going to do now?" He crossed his arms.

"Confound it," I muttered. "Do I have to be a good example?"

"If you want your words to carry any weight, then yes." He closed the book with a snap and tossed it onto the couch. "Watson, use your brain: if you do not follow the advice you give, it can't be very good advice; else you'd be following it. Now why would I want to follow bad advice? I'd be a fool."

"I have to agree with that."

"Of course you do, it's the simplest logic. So why aren't you eager to follow your own advice?"

"I suppose…well it's not like building something, where it's always a to b to c. Art, including writing, is a delicate creature and what I write now, may not be the same as what I write in the morning."

"Exactly!" He cried. "And why is that a bad thing? Answer that, and we shall have solved the riddle!"

"Because…ugh, Holmes, I can't think!"

"You must, Watson! Why can you not put off the writing? Because it will be different, yes, but why does that matter? For all you know it would be better in the morning after a good night's sleep, correct?" There was a jeering undercurrent in his words.

"I don't know!" I cried. "I just do. There's all these bits and pieces and anecdotes and I'll forget some of them if I put it off. I can't bear the thought that it will come out different from the vision I have of it now."

"Ah-ha!" He cried, jabbing his finger triumphantly in the air. "That is the answer, the word 'vision'! How can a person sleep when a vision, a clear image of what could be and in fact must be, is pressing on the inside of their eyelids! There is no sleep for the dreamer, ironically enough."

I stared at him for some time; he was smiling in a hard, bitter way.

"Well Holmes," I said finally, getting to my feet, "I'll have to sleep on this matter."

And I went to bed.


	5. Thing with Feathers

"Watson."

I looked up. "What is it, Holmes? Are you ill?"

He shook his head, hesitating in his doorway.

"What's the matter, then?" I set down my medical journal and stood. "Here, I'll come to your room. And you can tell me whatever it is you have on your mind."

He sat on his bed and looked at me with eyes full of gravity. "I need to know something, Watson. Are you ashamed of me?"

"No!"

"No, Watson, I really want you to think before you answer," he insisted, rubbing his fingers together spastically. "If you are not, why not? You have every reason to be ashamed of me, when you think on it."

I sighed, bringing a chair to his bedside. "I'll admit it was bad timing, but if you'd only known Mrs. Hudson's cousin—"

"Ah, ah." He shook a reproving finger. "All that is completely irrelevant. What I am asking is, in light of how I…behaved, are you ashamed of me?" He fixed me with his gaze.

"Not ashamed of you, Holmes. Just ashamed for you. And…angry, that some people may be drawing inaccurate assumptions of you, since they're not seeing who you really are. I wish I could make them see the truth!"

"Anything else?" he asked quietly. "I think there is."

I looked away. "Sometimes I am scared…and sad. I'm never sure when my friend will leave. Your body is here, but there are times I walk in and your mind is gone. And you won't talk, at least as you normally do. I miss you when that happens."

"Oh." He looked to the middle distance. "It's not intentional, Watson."

"That's the problem, Holmes; when you take it, everything becomes unintentional. Don't you like to solve problems? Don't you like to hold all the clues in your hand, in complete power over them, seeing and understanding everything, deducing the solution without qualm?"

He nodded.

"You like to be in control of things, but…don't you see, you're not in control of anything when…and Holmes, something might happen to you! What if you take it one day, and I'm not around. What if someone takes advantage of you, you could get killed, for heaven's sake!" I paused to collect myself. "I could not bear that."

There was a silence, slightly tense but tolerable. Holmes looked out his window.

"I suppose…I've said things, and done things, that I don't quite remember," he said at last.

"On occasion, yes." I said gently.

"That's a disquieting thought." His eyes suddenly looked much older. "I suppose I'd rather not think about it, it's too…"

"Painful?"

He closed his eyes briefly in confirmation. "I cannot stand it, Watson…I value a drug over my reputation, and my honor. I am wretched."

"That's not true. You value your honor highly, but…you cannot make the choice alone."

He laughed bitterly. "I am only too aware of that, Watson. If you were not here this minute, I have no doubts what I would be doing. But what does it matter? You have work, writing; you have a life. No one owes it to me to…embark on some foolish endeavor. Which, I add, can only end in failure."

"It will not end in failure," I said intently, "not in the end anyway. Holmes, I know you cannot imagine someone working night and day, just as hard as you will have to, never giving up, but you must believe: I will."

"I wish I could believe that," he whispered.

"Believe it!" I insisted. "Do you have any reason not to?"

"No. I suppose not," he said slowly, a faint light coming to his dull grey eyes. He gave me a sideways look.

"No, no, no. I'm not going to lock it all up and tell you to be a man. We both want you to be in control of yourself, correct? This is a choice I want you to make, all for yourself. Once you make the choice, you let me know, and then…that's when I'll become a deuced inconvenience," I laughed. "But the choice, you make. Something tells me I will not have too long to wait."

"Perhaps not," he murmured, looking out the window again at a ray of sun piercing the London fog.


	6. The Time has Come

The view from the corner of my room had not changed for the last hour. 'Twas doubtful it ever would. I wrapped the blanket tighter around myself, leaned even further back into the blocky concavity, and raising my eyes I wished the gas could be turned up higher. Windy howlings ran round the house.

A knock came on my door, and I cried out.

"It's only me, Holmes," Watson said, looking in. He had been smiling but it was rapidly fading. "I had a bit of news for you, perhaps now is not the time?"

"Depends on the news."

"True enough; well, it's a surprise I had." The pleased smile returned and he rubbed his hands in anticipation. "I have obtained two tickets for the violin concert tonight. I know I should have told you before, but it was a narrow thing to get them and I didn't want to risk disappointing you. I've only been certain on the matter for the last quarter hour."

"It's very considerate of you, Watson."

He wrinkled his brow. "You don't seem happy about it, though."

"It's nothing to concern yourself with; I suppose I'm just not in a mood to go to a concert."

"Oh that's absurd, Holmes, when are you not in a musical mood?"

"I'll have you know I enjoy other activities on occasion. It's rather presumptuous of you to assume you know everything about me, is it not?"

"But--"

"Ask one of your colleagues, why don't you, one of them might like to go."

"But Holmes—"

"Oh get out, Watson, stop dithering in the doorway! I want to be alone."

He gave me a long look, and was gone.

I do not know how much time passed before the door opened again.

"I told you I wanted to be alone."

"I know, and I don't believe you," he replied, settling himself on the floor stiffly with an armful of books and papers. "So I'm going to keep you company." He picked up a paper and began editing it with a contagious calm.

I watched him for a long time, and felt my racing heart slow to some degree. Even the wind did not seem quite as…frightening.

And yet, though it was a pleasant place to be, there was a core of regret. We could have had so much more.

"Watson?"

"Hm?" He looked up, pressing his finger to the paper to mark his place.

"It shouldn't be like this…it could be different."

"Yes, it could," he agreed, without malice.

"We should be out, everywhere, doing everything. I don't want it to be like this."

He set aside the paper and folded his hands together. "What are you saying, Holmes?"

I took several shallow breaths. "I've…I've had enough. I'm…" I looked up to meet his eyes. "I've made my choice, Watson. I am ready."


	7. Finding the Road

A/N: I am not obsessing too much over the quality now because I cannot, cannot, cannot lose my momentum. I refuse to leave this unfinished! Critique is much appreciated, wow guys I am excited about where this is going, let me tell you! Oh guys, truly, I am proud of how this is turning out, I want to always learn, always improve, I hope you enjoy this because I'm having an absolute ball writing it. *dances*

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The fragile hope was ebbing from Holmes' eyes with frightening speed.

"Watson, it's all well and good to say I will quit, but what does it mean? That is to say—what do I do now?" He drew his knees to his chest and looked at me from under dark brows.

I could only look back, the switch from abstract to practicalities having shocked me as much as him.

"Normally I can solve any problem," he pursued, filling the lengthening silence, "but this one—well I don't know how to go about it! I've not been schooled on the matter; I don't know the vocabulary, nor the formulas, and my mind feels like a cat trying to find footing on wet glass."

"Without data…the mind will tear itself to pieces," I said slowly.

"That's right." He gave me a sharp look. "That's it exactly. We need data to solve this problem, but where will we find it?"

"I think I know. I'll be back directly, Holmes, don't move!" I returned as fast as I could with an unused notebook. "Look, we must find the data. You are your own experiment now, Holmes. We must record everything, make the categories, we'll find a way."

"Steady on, Watson, this is all a bit fast." Holmes put a hand to his temple. "Can't we have a smoke, and discuss this later over dinner?"

"I suppose," I said reluctantly. "But, I say, Holmes—"

"Hm?" He was already fumbling for a cigarette and match on his windowsill.

"What do you think about letting Mrs. Hudson in on this plan?"

He struck the match on the wallpaper, touched the flame to the cigarette and drew deeply, letting the smoke out in a shaky but relieved breath. "Sorry, Watson, what were you saying?"

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"What about her?" He opened the window and pitched the blackened match into the evening air.

I sighed softly. "Would you like to tell her about the plan?"

"Don't see a reason why I should."

"Well—she loves you like her own son. I thought she would be happy to know it."

"Humph; we shall see. Do you have the time?"

"Looks to be nearing dinner, if that's what you're wondering."

"It is. But surely you told Mrs. Hudson not to cook, since you thought we'd be at the concert?"

"No; as I said, it was a narrow thing to get the tickets. I wasn't certain whether or not we would miss dinner, so I told her to cook as usual, to be on the safe side. And a good thing! So it's all right, more than all right, because it's roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. I'm hungry just thinking about it."

"Hm." Holmes folded up the blanket which had been around his shoulders, and placed it neatly at the foot of the bed. He had slowed the rate of his smoking and now puffed gently on the cigarette as he looked in his mirror, straightening his collar. "Well, it wouldn't do to give the pudding a chance to go flat, would it? Clean up your books, and then we shall dine." He paused. "And…talk."


	8. Buckle Up

A/N: Please enjoy! I'd like to tip my hat to KCS and AmatorLinguae, because I believe their writing style rubbed off on me some, in a very good way. X3

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"This looks delicious, Mrs Hudson," said I, unfolding my napkin and inhaling the rich scent of roast and pudding. "Holmes and I will enjoy it very much."

Our landlady nodded, smiling with trembling lips.

"Wait a bit, is something wrong?"

"No, I was only wondering—" she looked away. "How much longer will the both of you be staying?"

Holmes quirked his brow. "I beg your pardon, Mrs Hudson, we were planning on staying as long as your good grace allows. What led you to think otherwise?"

"These past few days you've both been so serious, like. I was certain you were planning to change quarters. I'm glad I was wrong--I would miss you so much!" She began to cry but checked herself with a brave smile. "Well, I—I had best be going downstairs."

"Wait, Mrs Hudson, won't you sit down a moment?" Holmes' eyes had a tender light to them.

"Sir?"

"Do sit down, Watson and I have something to tell you."

She came to the table hesitantly and took a seat across from us.

"We have been talking, but not of moving to new quarters. It's an entirely different matter, you see. Watson and I have—er—come to an agreement."

"An agreement? Concerning the rent, you mean?"

"No, no, nothing of the kind. It's simply something we think needs to be done. And we thought, since you are our landlady, we—well—" he glanced at me a moment, then turned back to her. "We have agreed—it would be for the best if I ceased taking—cocaine." Holmes gave each of us a quick, matter-of-fact glance, then picked up his water-glass and proceeded to drink it to the dregs. It didn't seem quite heavy enough to warrant the quiver in his arm.

Mrs Hudson's lips were parted, and she gazed at him with wonder and affection. "I have prayed for this day," she whispered, giving his shoulder a gentle pat.

"Quite so, quite so." Holmes looked straight before him as he set down the glass and took a breath. "Watson has some clever tricks in mind, though, and I am decided enough in my own. We're not ushering in the Apocalypse, after all."

"No, not at all, of course." She gave me a knowing wink. "Well gentlemen, shall I leave you to your dinner before it gets cold?"

"Yes, I think so. We will see you later, of course," Holmes added, pouring more water into his glass.

Just before she left the room she looked back, and her eyes were bright. "Mr Holmes, you've honored me."

When I turned to see how Holmes had taken her comment, he plunged into a dramatic production of unfolding his napkin.

"So, Watson," he said at last, giving a final smooth to the cloth and picking up his fork, "Do you have any objection to working whilst we eat? I think not, else you'd have left the notebook in your room, along with the inkwell."

"No objection in the slightest," I replied, leaning over to pick the ink, and silver-blue book, off the floor. "What shall I write at the beginning?"

Holmes frowned, looking up from carving a bite of meat. "What are you talking about?"

"Well--you know, should I write--"

"No!" Holmes' eyes widened in realization. "No flowery dedications, Watson, you know me better than that. Leave it to your own books."

"But we have to write _something_..."

"Then write 'the beginning,' or 'page one,' or how about, "'If you are anyone but Mr. Sherlock Holmes or Dr. John Watson, close this book at once.'"

"I'll write 'The Beginning.'" Taking a pen from my pocket I dipped it, carefully penning the title. "Alright. Listen to this, Holmes; we start by establishing what areas of your life are affected by the drug. We make a list of categories and chart, day to day, how those categories are fluctuating. Or not, as may be."

"Anything else?"

"Yes; we try things. And we record which work and which don't."

"Watson, you're hardly using a scientist's jargon. What things? And how do you define, 'work?'" Holmes nibbled his Yorkshire pudding.

"Sorry, Holmes--I'll think of a better way to explain." I rubbed my forehead. "I wish you to compile a list of everything that makes you happy, content you might say, and then we will see which of those things are most successful as distractions."

"Distractions from what?"

"Holmes! You don't seriously intend to sit and think to yourself, 'I will not use cocaine.'"

"Well why not? I always use my brain to solve problems."

"Your mother ever make jam Roly Poly?"

He nodded, wrinkling his brow.

"I imagine there were times she told you not to touch it, if for example company was coming and it was to be saved for pudding."

"That's correct."

"So what did you do?"

"Well occasionally I…erm…"

"The times when you were successful in self-control, I mean. Did you stand there and sniff the fragrant steam, imagine the glistening, piping hot jam all sweet and succulent?"

"No, Watson, of course not," he laughed. "That would be ridiculous."

"Oh? and why's that?"

"Because if I stayed in the kitchen and thought about…oh."

"Exactly. You had to leave the kitchen, didn't you, and put your mind to some other task. Reading, drawing, dissecting toads, whatever you like. But something else. Thinking on what you couldn't have would drive you mad, and you'd give in."

"I see your point, regardless: making such a list seems...rather childish."

"I daresay some things lost in childhood were better kept. Before we make the list though, Holmes, I've got to--we've got to make this clear. The bottle has to go. Needles, everything. We must get rid of it all, and tomorrow." I made an emphatic gesture. "Otherwise it's no good; we're only fooling ourselves that it's more than a game of make-believe."

He put down his fork, paling. "I'm--not hungry anymore."

"Eat." I pointed my own fork at him. "You're going to need all your strength."

* * *

A/N: Whoa...I sort of...startled myself with that. 00 And, here is a recipe for jam Roly Poly, an English dessert. Never tried this recipe, though I plan to. Also the ads on this site are really stupid. DX http://www DOT ehow DOT com SLASH how UNDERSCORE 2140795 UNDERSCORE jam-roly-poly DOT html


	9. Morning Notes

**_--"The Begining"--_**

**_12th November, 1884_**

**T**his first entry concerns what Watson calls "distractions and points of affect." Speaking of distractions, I cannot help noting that Watson made a rather egregious spelling error. At any rate, I shall begin with the latter, "points of affect," though as I pointed out to my friend, I will not be aware of all the points until this experiment has actually begun. For now, I can make educated speculations.

_**Areas affected ­­­­­­­/_Form of affection____________/ To what extent it occurs**_

_Health_______/_Headaches______________________/_Variable___________

_Finances_____/ Unable to afford experiment materials__/_Bad, growing worse_

_Violin playing­ _/_Arm is too sore to play­­­_____________/_Varies in severity___

Watson insisted that these categories are important—and as he is so keen on them, I'll grant him the pleasure to fill in the rest himself.

_Appetite___________

_Sleep_____________

_Behavior__________

Now for the list of "distractions," as he calls them:

_Staying up all the night, then watching the sunrise__________________

_Walking to the chemist to buy a new flask, beaker or test-tube_________

_Recording an experiment in the most exacting detail_________________

_My pipe__________________________________________________

_After dinner discussion______________________________________

**T**hat is all I have in mind at this time.

It is early morning, I hear him stirring above me. My handwriting falters a bit; must be this new nib. They are such finicky things.

_~End first entry~_


	10. D day

a/n: I beg you, if you take the time to review, please don't say, "Yeah you have 1 spelling mistake, otherwise pretty good." I put a lot of my heart into this, don't slay my spirit now! xD This isn't saying you have to leave a 3-paragraph review. I only ask that if you review, the best type would be to comment on the content and overall mood. That's all, just enjoy it mates! Research sources are at the bottom. And thanks for the grammar tweak, KCS! XD

* * *

"I deduce you were up all night, Watson."

"Well…yes." I dropped onto the couch. "And I'll own I feel a fool. I thought we'd face the task better with a good night's sleep, but that plan seems to have failed."

"It does, yes." Holmes gave a yawn which ended on a groan. "Regardless, you will notice I held out through the night."

"I did notice that," I said softly. "And I was glad. Now, Holmes, are you ready?"

"No."

"Neither am I, so let us begin."

"How—how exactly were you thinking to go about it?"

"Like so: we fasten the morocco case securely, and I'll see that it gets removed on dustbin day. The bottles we'll empty in the sink, wash out and be rid of them. If you feel it's such a terrible waste I can run the empty bottles back to the chemist, but we're keeping none of it in the flat, none at all."

Holmes began kneading his long hands together rhythmically. "I perceive the time for philosophizing is over."

"That's up to you," said I. "Anytime you are ready, we shall begin. If you have anything uneasy in your mind still, you know you can tell me."

He looked away, keeping up the rhythm of his hands. "And…you're certain this plan of yours is safe, to empty it directly into the sink?"

"Why not? It will run through the system to the outfalls, the Thames diluting it. The most that could happen is a baffled fish or two. Nothing on par with _Princess Alice_, I assure you."[1,2]

He folded his hands together. "Then let us start. Watson, bring me the case." His hands reached out to take the morocco case from me, and he unclasped it slowly. There was a moment before he pushed it open and I felt it proper to busy myself with rearranging objects on the tabletop.

"Yes, this is everything," he said quietly at last, and I heard the case close with a muted snap. I turned just in time to see him lock the clasp delicately with the tip of his index finger. "Will you hand me some adhesive tape? Thank you."

A terrible darkness passed through his eyes as he held the newly-taped case. "Well, goodbye then," he said softly, running a finger along the well-worn material. "Watson, take it." I noticed his fingers held on as long as they could.

I put it in my pocket quickly. "Now for the drug itself, Holmes. There's more than this bottle on the mantle?"

"Yes. I will show you," he sighed, getting to his feet and leading the way to his room, where he took several small phials out from under his bed. "Carry these little ones, will you Watson? I'll get the one in the sitting room."

I suppressed a shiver at the affectionate way he handled and spoke of the jars, but did as he bid me, and carried a small bottle in each hand. I let him lead the way again, and soon enough we found ourselves standing side by side before the sink.

"And now, Watson?" He inquired, looking to me.

"Open that bottle," I instructed. "Now you know what to do. When you're ready, empty it all down the drain."

We could hear the quiet sloshing of the liquid now that the lid was off, and a chemical smell was writhing into the room. I pushed the lavatory door open all the way with my socked foot, and set the smaller phials on the floor until he should be ready to deal with them.

Holmes wet his lips with his tongue and stared intently at the drain. His gaze slid to rest on the jar of crystal liquid. "Watson," said he at last, in a low voice, "I'm surprised you haven't grabbed the bottle from me and got this over with yourself."

I shook my head. "It's important that you do this yourself, Holmes. Think of it as a rite of passage, of sorts."

"That's an interesting way of looking at it. Though I believe such a rite would never get into textbooks—'twould scare English children half to death, to think of people in their own country, hovering over sinks with jars of…"

I glanced at his face. "…of?"

"Heaven and Hell."

"More Hell than Heaven, I would say. What are you thinking?"

He was turning the bottle and watching it sparkle in the morning light; the softness in his eyes did not make me easy.

"Nothing much—just, you know, the first time."

"No; I don't think that's a good idea. In fact, Holmes, do the opposite! That's it, don't you see?"

"The opposite? So I should think of…" His thin face twisted in a sudden grimace.

"Yes! whatever that is, think of it. Come on, I know you can do this!"

"Let's hope you're right," he whispered.

"Holmes." I laid my hand on his back; his muscles were so taut. We stood before the sink until every drip from the faucet seemed comically loud, until I closed my eyes to stop the room from weaving. I kept my palm on his back, occasionally giving a comforting pat.

Gradually I became aware of the gentlest splash, as a river in first thaw. Blinking my eyes open, I saw he had tipped the jar. The clear liquid spilled over the lip, ran down the glass side, over his fingers and into the sink. He held it thus until the level of cocaine had dropped so far that no more spilled over.

Drawing a quick breath, he increased the angle and we watched as the transparent liquid swirled around the basin and gurgled its way down the drain. He tipped it even further despite whitening knuckles, and a brief waterfall cascaded before us. "The other bottles, Watson, quickly!" He cried.

Holmes wrenched off the lids and dumped the contents, sweat beginning to wilt his collar. He rapidly rinsed all three bottles and slammed them in a row on the edge of the sink. He whirled to face me, shock and wonder in his expression. "Watson…I did it!"

Both our faces were wet with tears.

* * *

a/n: This chapter was very hard to write, but I am proud with how it turned out. And you better believe I have lots more planned!

Research sources:

1. http://www DOT portcities DOT org DOT uk SLASH london SLASH server SLASH show SLASH ConNarrative DOT 153 SLASH chapterId SLASH 3181 SLASH Bazalgette-and-Londons-sewage DOT html

2. http://www DOT portcities DOT org DOT uk SLASH london SLASH server SLASH show SLASH ConNarrative DOT 101 SLASH The-Princess-Alice-tragedy DOT html

...Whoa, PCSD (post-chapter self-doubt) Does anyone care if I finish this story? I feel so stupid...argh, must not give up...


	11. Wind Chimes

A/N: I basically stapled my pants to the chair to get this finished and posted; I have been feeling loathe to untangle this huge plot in my mind, but I must and I shall. Hope you liked it, and thank you Iloveinuyasha1 for reminding me I must not give up! ^_^ And um...I do realize there are no wind chimes in this chapter. Nothing else seemed to fit for the title; that's the mood I was going for: slow, soft and gentle like chimes in the wind, is all.

-----------------------------------------------------***--------------------------------------------

I settled myself in a chair and opened the blue and silver notebook. Holmes stirred in his sleep; I watched him a moment before returning my attention to the page. The words there had emotion in their very appearance, for they were graced with diluted gold from the muslin-filtered afternoon.

_____________________________________________________________________

_~Perhaps I am expected to feel some great achievement, but I feel nothing except unease; a deep sense that something is wrong. Why does my mind insist on showing me again and again the empty bottles sparkling so, lined up neatly on the sink's edge? It wasn't a deadly sparkle…it was quite innocent, and most appealing. --S.H._

_~Holmes will not write today, he refuses childishly, so I must record that instead of taking breakfast this morning he flung his fork across the room in a temper. It nearly missed the fireplace. He then wanted to leave on an errand; I had a bad feeling of what this "errand" might be and, with difficulty, canceled the plan. The rest of this day has been most unpleasant._

_~Sometimes I wish I had a duller flat-mate…someone who could not divine my thoughts. I will forget the matter now, it was a moment of weakness only, and yesterday is dead. Today is not much better, though; I drift in and out of conscious thought, and I daresay I like being in the fog better. I do not like the way my thoughts have of coming to the same sharp point no matter where in the metaphysical realm I travel. I am distracted from this thought every time I hear a creak on the stairs--I hope it will be a client. yet my mind is not available to them. It will not behave. [sketches of Lestrade's footprints] what is it all coming to? --S.H._

_~His mind seems emptier. I know there is much there, but it is sleeping, somehow, a hibernation of undetermined length. He seems very different, and very unhappy, and I own I don't know what to do about it. He refuses to engage in conversation._

_~I know, Watson, but it cannot be helped. If I tried to converse, my words would only spark a row. I have nothing pleasant to say. There was nothing wrong in your invitation; it is as I told you, I'm too tired to go for such a long walk. --S.H._

_~Holmes is very tired of late, despite no unusual exertion; his naps grow ever longer and today he arose at three in the afternoon._

_~[Half-finished sketch of a pillow] _

__________________________________________________________________________

I closed the book, set it on the floor and checked the clock; it was four in the afternoon. If this behavior went on much longer I was going to have to consult Anstruther for the sake of my nerves as much as my friend's health.

He simply could not stop sleeping—even his usual fastidiousness failed to come between him and his nest and it was telling on him, his hair being the main betrayer.

It had long since passed the ruffled, carefree look which seems to captivate the attention of the fairer sex, and was fast approaching a disheveledness which would be painful to undo. I did not wish for him to be faced with such an aggravating task.

After sitting a bit and rubbing the back of my neck, I fetched his brush and stood before him. "Holmes?"

He managed to raise one eyelid halfway, and his grey eye fastened on me before closing again. He breathing was deep and quiet.

I sat on the bedside, and after only a moment more of hesitation I began to brush his dark hair, taking care not to pull on it in any way that might pain him.

I am not sure if he knew exactly what was happening, but he made a soft, almost musical hum as I worked, one which I could not help smiling at. When I had finished and lay the brush down, he slept for several more hours and then he awoke and looked quietly at me.

"What have you been doing today, Watson? For it seems to me, from the slant of the light in the room, that the day has nearly passed."

"Yes, it is half-past six. Would you take a little tea?" I stood and opened the curtains, letting the last delicate rays fill the room with an antique calm.

He yawned and stretched. "I would, thank you Watson; and I do not think I would be opposed to extra sugar."

"I will see that you get it. How are you feeling today, Holmes?"

He paused mid-stretch and looked at me. "I miss it. But I should miss you more if you do not stay while I have my tea. You will, won't you? Ha! I know my Watson."

I broke into a glad smile. "Black tea or green, then?"

* * *


	12. Despair

A/n: Much longer chapter coming quite soon. This chapter is a bit Hemingway I think...

* * *

I rapped on his door and leaned in. "Holmes? I brought your post."

"Set it on the bedside table, Watson; I'll have a look later."

"There is no more room on the table."

"Put it on the floor _under_ the table, then."

I tossed the envelopes down with a short sigh. "Do you think you will feel well enough to take dinner in the sitting-room tonight?"

"Why?"

"Well—Mrs Hudson has been worrying about you lately."

"Something she does far too often. Close the curtains, please, the sun is bothering me."

"No. If you won't go outside, leaving the curtains open is the very least you can do. Holmes, listen--you've been keeping to your bed for weeks, and I don't think it's healthy. You need to start taking walks, sitting up more…can you still be so exhausted?"

"I have my own reasons for what I do, Watson. Now I would really prefer silence." He closed his eyes and turned to face the wall.

"I don't understand," I said softly, "but I will leave you to rest until dinner time."

___________________________________________________________________________

I nibbled my now-cold dinner, looking wistfully at his closed door. I had done my best to coax him but as usual he insisted on eating in his room. I did not like that practice at all; if a person could sit up they should eat with other people.

And I knew he could sit up. I knew he was stronger and more alert--he hadn't taken the drug for weeks, so why was he _now_ sinking into a black despair?

Not even my best attempts at a cheering bedside manner were helping his mood. If I could just get him to pick up his violin...but how to return him to his hobbies if he wouldn't even get out of bed, much less the house?

As I gave my roast duck another half-hearted poke, I found my attention drawn to the window. It was growing dark. I had only gotten outside once today, I realized, for an appointment. Had I been outside at all yesterday? No, that was the day Holmes and I had a bit of a row, and I'd gotten so frustrated I had buried myself in researching a treatise.

"I suppose I'm just not hungry tonight," I chuckled sadly, and without really meaning to I found myself climbing the stairs. I turned out the gas, I shut the door. Before retiring to bed I went to the window and looked out, my fingers resting on the bars.

* * *


	13. Tartaros

A/n:

**(EDIT: Everyone you've been so kind, but I cannot have anymore reviews on this chapter, chapter 13. It was a terrible chapter to write, I need to put it behind me now and move on with the story...I cannot bear to read anymore on it. :( Thank you those who reviewed, I don't mean to be ungrateful or insulting. So moving on...)**

Um…this gets my vote as the darkest chapter yet. I actually felt a bit sick writing it. You have been warned. 00

In case people take issue with Holmes' nibbling: cocaine suppresses the appetite, and he has not been taking it.

And sorry Pompey, I forgot to give you credit for your great inspiration in plots. Really this chapter is a lot due to you. 3

And to everyone: Thank you so much for your reviews. This story is very hard and exhausting at times to write, especially as I barely know where I'm going at times and I am hanging on by my teeth and nails to not become totally despairing of finishing it. So much still must happen, I have so many pages of notes and word documents for this story, so much must happen, stick with me!! XD

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I have been bored before, I am quite familiar with it. This is not boredom. This is despair as black as hell.

Why don't I take my revolver and put a bullet through my brain? One reason, now out on some errand or other. Watson seemed happy to leave the house; he must be tired indeed of me.

I continue to pace, not knowing where to let my steps fall. Now to my room, then halfway up the stairs; I even find myself in the kitchen. I nibble constantly, most unusual for me, but my thoughts are bits of broken chains and so philosophy gives me no solace. Instead I make the pantry a station on my mobious-strip, and the level in the jar of crystallized fruit grows ever lower. I don't taste it. I don't even want to eat it. It just seems to happen.

I have not slept in many hours, but sleeping seems laughable. What's the use of it? There will be no refreshment for me. I feel a smile, now, and identify the bitter humor it sprang from. Everything seems hilarious in a dark and twisted way; I find the concept of "purpose" amusing. To live is to be internally dead. It is only a matter of time before the shell catches up.

I see everything now through a mask—an unwanted yet mandatory filter. Dark and depressing thoughts are magnified, and things I cannot seriously believe…they seem so real. It comes to me unbidden, a more complex curl of emotion: I am anxious, harassed by my own mind. I have not gone out for many days (as Watson will not let me forget), and I'll keep that up as long as I can. The thought of people looking at me…of being so vulnerable in the street, it drives a stab of fear into my heart and I eschew that thought as quickly as I possibly can.

"Watson."

My violin sounds wrong today, every note is slightly off. My acids and beakers seem pointless, frankly. When I die, so will my research, and the chemicals will be sloshed out the window. I also see for the first time that every client I've helped dies in the end. Twenty years from now, who will give a damn over what I did?

What a deception my whole life has been. I could kill myself for shame when I think of how studiously happy I was: measuring and mixing, investigating and thinking, when it all comes to naught.

I have a rare and admirable cornucopia of emotions crushing my chest presently. It would be an interesting case study, I am certain, if only it were someone else. I would be looking at the client, logically calculating the appropriate response, mentally noting body language to compare against future clients, putting a hand to my chin and thinking…but oh god, this misery…

I gaze outside the window, finding a strange and brittle beauty in what I see…the starkness of the buildings against the quiet sky, a few ornithological silhouettes moving about like bits of black paper. When I turn and survey the room, it is the same way: I see familiar things, old things that give me a flicker of happiness. My magnifying glass with the crack, a certain velvet shadow, the way sunlight hits a brass candlestick.

Yet I feel an ache where a flushed glow belongs. No beauty can sustain me; it is only the briefest of respites between paroxysms. Not even God, I am certain, can drag me from this despair.

Mrs Hudson enters with lunch; I am disoriented for just a moment, not even sure what to do with my body. My smile is forced and uncomfortable, I fear she'll suspect…then suddenly I am making little jokes, and my smile feels genuine. And somehow I am chatting with her about an amusing happening she saw last week in the street.

Once again I marvel at the complexity of the brain. It's all very well to say the mind has levels, but we know it is only a metaphor. If you cut off the top of someone's skull you would not really find stairways and doors and ground floors in the flesh. So on a chemical level, how does it all work? I dismiss these thoughts, they can be of no practical use.

She leaves me to my meal, making me promise to eat. She closes the door quietly behind her; I am alone again. I take one bite of the leftover duck, swallow without chewing and return to the window. I did not tell her how much I would eat.

"Strange how the brain controls the brain," I murmur, putting my palms against the cold glass. But…could I control my own brain? And what would be the use in that?

I knew of many cures and medicines, but why not a medicine to make this easier for me, to help me control my brain? Was that, perhaps, what all my study of chemistry had been meant for, to make some such medicine—to make the way better for others? "Don't be a fool," I say out loud sharply, pacing to the mantle and warming myself.

Again I have vague notions of killing myself, alcohol and a bullet the main options coming to mind. I cross the room and take out my revolver. Was I mad? No; surely it was only human nature to want to escape such intolerable pain. Hesitating, I lay the gun back down. This will require thought and planning. I don't want Watson to find me in a horrible way. And was a note required in this type of situation?

I never was good at social customs.

A train of thought begins, and though I know the destination is wrong, though I know I should go out and track Watson down, though I damn well know I'm being an idiot to think I can stop this train whenever I want, I still sit down by the fireplace and begin to think about…it.

The needle prick only lasts an instant while it slips through the skin, I never have much dread of it. Then the excitement begins. Even if I am feeling terrible I know in only a very short time it will be better…That bubbling glow of happiness that I so rarely feel. Why do people demonize it and disparage? They're fools to judge what they've never tried! If only they knew how altogether good it can make you feel, they would stop this nonsense.

I realize I am drooling slightly and go fetch a napkin from the table. My meal looks up at me reproachfully. Food! Who cares about such trifles?

I begin again to pace. It's not fair of Watson to tell me to give this up. It's simply not. He doesn't know, so how can he give me good advice about the matter? I lean against the wall and ponder. The whole business is ridiculous, and he ought to know that.

Why is that spot on the mantle so glaringly empty?

It is too empty. I will go purchase a bottle of cocaine straight away to fill it.

"What!" I cry out at the unbidden thought. No, I won't! I mustn't!

I will go now, the chemist's is surely open.

"No I _won't!"_ Why is my brain betraying me?

I want it so very much…and just once more couldn't hurt. Anyway I don't have to use it, I can simply look at it. Because I know where there is some. A syringe too, glittering beautifully.

Watson is not visiting a patient.

I leap to my feet; I can actually smell the drug. I must be going insane.

"Alright, that's enough now," I say shakily to the empty room. "That's enough...I must stop. Watson!"

And then, as I knew it would, _as I knew it would_, the craving takes me. I can think of nothing else, my mind is no longer my own. Entranced, mesmerized, there is no stopping. I can't look anywhere but in the direction of the stairs, up, where the bag must be. No thought of doing something else. Watson will have to understand.

I am on the edge of sanity with the situation I've created, and find myself running up the stairs, searching his room, fumbling for the bag.

I open it with shaking hands, heart pounding, tossing aside bandages and painkillers and gasping with relief as my fingers brush the cool glass of the syringe. I must find the needle next, put it together, and here is the right bottle…I nearly slop the contents on the floor as I rip the lid off and fill the syringe with a dose. I have not forgotten how to do this…

The prick…then…

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Holmes!" His voice is terrible.

I blink my eyes open, yawning, and find myself sprawled across the floor, the contents of his bag strewn all over. I'd left the cocaine uncapped and the room now smells of it, a smell that makes me feel a little sick, strangely.

My attention comes back to his face—it is dark with disappointment.

I read it in his eyes; he doesn't have to say it.

_I thought you were better than this._


	14. The Land of Beginning Again

a/n: This is not an easy journey.

You can savage this chapter all you like, by the way, concrit is welcome by me.

* * *

The darkness in his face was rapidly changing to concern. "Holmes, what were you _thinking_—you didn't use alcohol or a tourniquet!"

"What?" I looked down to find the inside of my arm covered with dried blood. "I don't understand—it seemed the same as always."

I did not turn to follow his motions as he walked past me carrying the syringe and bottle, but I did hear a drawer pulled open, the rattling of the secreted objects and the turning of a key. "You'll be lucky if you don't get an infection. Sit down in the chair."

I could not help an inward twist at the commanding tone.

"Your arm wants a very thorough cleaning, Holmes; I know you've done this before but I'd rather I did it now." He settled himself on the edge of the bed and lay down his supplies. It seemed to me he took my arm a bit roughly.

The soft rasp of wet cotton on my skin was the only relief from the crackling silence. I wound my feet around the legs of the chair, nose twitching at the rubbing alcohol. "Watson—"

"Yes?" He frowned, wiping off the last traces of blood.

I looked past him to the wall. "What--happens now?"

"I saw your gun out," he said steadily, taking up a bandage. "I think I shall begin by putting it away when I'm finished with your arm. Sit back down, Holmes. I also saw you barely touched your food. We will have dinner together tonight, and neither of us will leave the table until all the food is eaten. Holmes—_sit down_. I'm nearly done."

I fumbled for my collar with my left hand; the air in that room was much too stifling.

"This is my fault as much as yours, you know; I should have hidden—that is to say: I must have the drug on hand for my patients. Since it has proved too tempting, I will now have to keep it locked up. I would have done that in the first place, only I wanted—"

"I understand. It was a noble thing to do." I stood, pulled my sleeve down and walked to the window. "I expect you will be watching me more closely now."

"I'm sorry, Holmes."

The distance to the ground was relatively high. My hand brushed the sash as I turned to face him. "Watson, tell me straight out. Are you planning on sending me to an asylum?"

"Don't be ridiculous, I'd have to be insane myself to do that! But listen, Holmes—I need to know. Why today? What happened?"

"What happened? Only the inevitable," I replied coolly, smoothing my vest. "I recall telling you this quest would end in failure."

"Holmes, no! We'd turned a corner. We breakfasted together today, you seemed much better. Was I only imagining it?"

"You must understand, not all men are like you, Watson—not all have such a connection betwixt the brain and the _visage_."

He looked at me, uncomprehending. "I wish I knew why this came out of thin air."

"It didn't. You saw everything and deduced _nothing_. Must I spell everything out to you, always, Watson?"

He looked at me, a slow and horrible light dawning. "I didn't see…I've failed you, then. I've done it all wrong—and this day's action was the crown jewel in my stupidity." He choked on the last word, and tumbling the remaining supplies into his bag, he rushed to the door--though not fast enough to hide his escaping grief.

* * *

Two hours had passed since then, yet I'd not moved from the spot. I hated myself for invading his room, and God knew where he'd sought privacy to deal with his emotion, but it had all happened too fast for me to stop him--to do anything really.

He thought he had failed me.

But had we even established what success was?

My mind started on a more normal train of thought, and I stood and began to pace. "When we began, we were not sure what the outcome would be." I held my index finger in the air, captivating my audience right from the start. "It's easy enough to say you will start such and such a project. But putting your hand to the plough and beginning, ah well, that's when you find yourself immersed in the filth of reality, is it not?"

They cheered approvingly and I continued, picking up confidence and vigor in my style. "We were certain we had a good plan in observing and recording. Yet it occurs to me that not only must one know what they are looking for—which we did, _viz.,_ the fluctuations in various categories—but one must also define the goal, the ultimate end. Did we do that?" The audience was somewhat hesitant in their response.

"We did, but vaguely. An add—a habit is a difficult thing to change, and I think perhaps, and only perhaps, gentlemen, our plan wants clarification in terms of the goal. It must have subdivisions, timetables; in short, much more than a New Year's resolution!"

The room erupted in cheers and I bowed with a flourish. "No, no, that is quite enough; I cannot go on...champagne is on me, my good men, and I bid you a very fine evening."

"Holmes, you never left the stage."

Choking back a shout, I leaped around to find Watson leaning against the doorframe. He was smiling, though his eyes were red, and he held the silver and blue book in his hands. "Perhaps after dinner we can do a little work?"

After taking a moment to regain my composure, I nodded and reached for the book. My motor skills must have been slightly impaired by stress, for I found myself grasping his hand instead.


	15. Now You Know

"Well, Watson? I've been a good lad, so may I have my pudding?"

I sighed. "Please, Holmes, don't make this day any more miserable. Yes, I believe you have eaten enough."

"In that case, I will retire to my room."

"No, you will not."

"Excuse me?"

"You will not seclude yourself; you will sit on that couch."

He drew himself tall. "And if I prefer the chair?"

"Then I'll drag the other chair beside yours. We have to be able to see the book together."

He glared a moment before stalking to the couch. A weary sigh escaped him; he slowly drew up his knees and gazed into the fire.

I took up an afghan and began to lay it around his shoulders.

He whirled and tore it from my hands. "I'm not cold!"

"I didn't say you were," I stepped back, showing my palms. "I was only trying to make you comfortable."

He threw it to the floor. "I don't _need_ to be comfortable."

"Well—Holmes, you took cocaine on a nearly-empty stomach today," I reasoned, fetching the book and a pen. "After leaving it alone for some time, too. You can't be feeling well, and I wanted to—"

"Stop it!"

"Holmes, what on earth…?"

"You should not be acting this way, Watson--you should be screaming at me."

"What!"

"I've wasted your time and effort, and made a fool of myself. How can you lay a blanket 'round me as if nothing has happened, when we both know what a moron I've been--when we both know what torture lies ahead?"

"That doesn't change anything, Holmes."

"Well, perhaps it should."

I set the book down on a side-table and picked up the blanket. "You do not think you deserve comfort."

"If a child contracts pneumonia through no fault of their own, of course they must be taken care of. But suppose that imbecile recovers, and goes straight away to splash in a puddle. If he gets sick again, he deserves no special care! Toss him in bed and let him suffer."

"In a way, that's true." I finished folding the blanket and lay it beside him. "Perhaps you don't deserve sympathy."

He looked straight ahead.

"And yet I'm still offering it. You can solve that puzzle at your leisure, Holmes."

Our eyes met, and could not break away.

"One day, we will fix that draughty window," Holmes said at last, pulling the blanket towards him and tucking it around his stocking feet.

"Many things will happen one day, Holmes, of that I am certain. And now, only give the word and we shall begin to make them happen."

* * *

A/n: Ah, do not fret, I will get to the nitty-gritty of their plans. I felt that this needed to happen though. I know it is this way for me, that when I think I've brought something on myself I'm a bit ashamed to ask for help/comfort. DX

Frank critique is appreciated. I realize Watson has become much more…the word "infantilizing" comes to mind. Well, balance is a difficult thing to find, for everyone.


	16. Ebbing

A/n: Another black and depressing chapter. Hooray.

* * *

Silence reigned for some minutes.

"Holmes, I don't mean to rush you," I said at last, "but we should start as soon as we can. We must work while your mind is—before—"

"Before?" He looked dully at me, pulling the blanket tighter about his feet. "Don't you understand that it is _always_, unless I have one of my stimulants?"

"The depression has already begun, then?" I sank into my armchair. "I had hoped…"

"That we'd have time to make a plan, I know. So tell me, Watson, what happened to our first plan?"

"You wouldn't try to distract yourself by any means, and refused to write much either. In a very few words, it fell apart."

"Sounds gloomy."

"It is, really."

"Then why are you smiling?"

I blinked. "Was I? I've no idea…well…what do you propose to do?"

"I have no propositions whatsoever."

Resisting the impulse to leap to my feet and knock over my chair, I handed him the book, pen and ink. "Why don't you write down a few thoughts? Just a few. Something is surely better than nothing, and perhaps it will organize things in your mind."

"Really." With a great lassitude Holmes uncapped the ink and dipped the pen.

"Unless—you want to dictate," I added, seeing a slight tremor in his hand.

"I have been to grammar school, Watson, I can actually write," he said with a dark look, and after only a moment or two he began to scratch away at a great rate.

Not wanting to interrupt a brain-wave, I sat back down and let my own mind wander. I had missed an appointment today, and two last week. That was bad; in no way did I wish to gain a name for myself as an unreliable doctor. I needed to get more organized. Things were far too chaotic, I must really stop being so lax…I must get my papers in order, and study my appointment book. I must finish that treatise and I absolutely could not forget to renew the subscription for the medical journals. A daily walk was wanted, but how could I possibly…

I was starting to think of--oddly enough--a cat scrabbling about on wet glass, when the pen-scratching stopped. Holmes was inspecting his work with a critical eye.

"Ah! all done? May I see?" I sat on the edge of the couch. "Oh."

"Yes."

"You're a better artist than I had thought."

"I do have art in the blood, you know."

"Cross contour?"

"I believe that is what it's known as, yes. And it is a three-ply—"

"Yes, yes I can see that. Especially from the way you penned in the shadows."

Holmes cleared his throat. "It ah, if you look closely you can tell it's continent-made, the um—"

"Holmes?" I drew a shaky breath. "Why did you draw a noose?"

He looked at me in an almost startled way, and tossing the notebook aside he sprang to his feet. His steps about the room were dogged and harried.

"Please sit down, Holmes, we must get some kind of…" I paused. The word 'plan' was beginning to lose its meaning to me. "Holmes! This cannot go on."

"I heartily agree," Holmes' voice was almost broken, and he leaned against the wall, plucking at the window-curtains. "Do you have any suggestions? I'm quite open to suggestions, Watson, I really am. Don't look at me like that! Nothing is wrong. Only—nothing is right! It is madness indeed." He tore the curtains aside, pressing his face to the foggy window. "Night, as it always is—and as I always am. Dark and full of pointless activity. Damnation! Watson, answer this question and I will never doubt you. Why is it that what is normal, cannot be normal anymore, and the extraordinary is now the normal? How is that possible?"

"I'm afraid I don't understand," I stammered.

"No one ever does. It's finished, Watson. Let us pretend no longer. We have failed. We have failed! There's nothing else to it. You simply cannot do what is required, nor can I, and in fact—there's only one solution. And you can help me with that. You must, Watson."

"Holmes…you know I'll help you however I can." I looked uneasily at his bright eyes and tight mouth. "What do you need?"

"First, you must promise to hear me out. I know you won't hear me out, you won't give me a chance, you never do. Not when it comes to…well, just listen, Watson. Your full attention is required. Now—it comes to this. I am in the miserable grips of a chain I cannot break. You cannot break it either, and, in fact, it is pulling both of us to the bottom of the ocean. So much is obvious. But only see—it's really quite simple, the solution. All you must do is—is give me back my revolver, and—"

"HOLMES!"

"—leave the room for a minute or two. Or however long you like, it's only I can't absolutely prevent the blood from—"

"Stop, this minute, or I—or I will—Holmes, I can't believe what I'm hearing! You want me to let you kill yourself!" Rising from the couch, I made a straight line for the table.

"It's only for the best, Watson, don't you see," he pleaded, ceasing his pacing and coming to stand before me. "We're both wretched, at least one of us should have the experience of a happy life."

"You think I can be happy without you?"

"I'm the first to admit—"

There was a knock on the door, and Mrs. Hudson looked in. "I came to clear the dishes…gentlemen?"

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson, but at the moment the important thing is for you to make a fresh pot of coffee, enough for three at least. Please do so as quickly as you can."

"Yes doctor." She gave us both a wide-eyed look before quietly closing the door behind her.

"Who are you calling?" Holmes backed away from me a pace or two.

I looked straight at him as I lifted the receiver from the hook. "We can't do this by ourselves any longer."


	17. Visitor

* * *

A/n: the plot is now passing into action, where there is no going back. I suspect many people would do things differently, but I must respectfully say I am going to try to follow the specific vision I have. That said, I am realizing that there are many different paths a story like this could take, so of course you can write your own version and I would be interested to see it. Thank you to people who are still reading even at--what is this, chapter 17 now? wow...

* * *

"Lestrade? Dr. Watson here. I heard from the Yard you were on leave."

"That's right, Dr. Watson." There was an embarrassed quality to his voice. "Did you need something?"

"But are you alright?"

"Well—alright enough. My arm's been broken, so I'm off the beat for a while."

"Broken! But what happened?"

"Oh! well, it's nothing much…but I'm sure you've heard, the small matter of the er…the Fenian bomb?"

"Good lord, you were there?"

"Not in the building, but close enough. Yes, I had a bad time of it—was knocked unconscious by a bit of brick. I'm right enough, as I said, but still off the job. What are you calling about?"

"Lestrade, you know that Holmes and I have given you assistance in the past."

"That's true enough."

"We um…we need to ask for your help now." I glanced to Holmes, but he gave no response; he was sitting very quietly by the fire.

"A case that Mr. Holmes cannot solve? This is most unusual."

"It's rather difficult to explain, perhaps you can come by. Holmes knows the facts well. And Lestrade…come prepared to spend the night?"

There was a moment's pause. "This seems to be an important matter. I shall come at once, soon as I can. Goodbye, then, Dr. Watson."

The moment my call ended I had another put through. "Anstruther?"

"Yes, it's me. I'm afraid if it's about your patients, I can help very little. I have a new family employing me, and two patients—young—with measles. I can possibly take one or two of your appointments, but you're on your own for the most part. That is, I assume you were calling about that."

"Of course; it's a natural thing for you to assume," I said evenly. "I can't ask for more than you're able to give. If I might give you the name of one or two patients, I'll be very grateful."

"You don't sound terribly well yourself."

"Just life, you know. Anstruther—"

"No need to apologize. Just tell me which patients you need me to see—very good, and at what time? Of course, I will relay their condition to you. Watson—"

"Yes?"

"Nothing. I will call you to-morrow afternoon to bring you up-to-date. Good evening."

"Good evening, Anstruther. And thank you." I hung up the phone quietly and turned my full attention on Holmes, though I'd kept an eye on him the whole time. He was still sitting before the fire. Though everything in me rebelled at the humiliation of it, I put up the grate which I kept on hand in case little children came. He had never been quite this depressed and I was not going to take any chances, no matter how foolish a precaution might make either of us feel.

A few minutes later, Mrs. Hudson came in to clear away the dinner things, and to tell me the coffee was being made. Before she left with the dishes she gave me a searching look. "Doctor, what is wrong?"

I hesitated. "It's Holmes. He's not feeling well at all; I've called Inspector Lestrade to come and, well, keep us company."

"I see, Doctor." She dropped her eyes, and with a sigh left the room.

I went back to Holmes, and crouched beside him before the fire. "I'm sure you heard, Lestrade is coming."

"Oh."

"Holmes, to be honest with you, I don't know exactly what is going to happen. All I know is, I have to protect you—even from yourself."

The crackling of the fire filled the raw silence for the next half hour.

* * *

"Just mind my arm if you please, Doctor," Lestrade cautioned as I removed his overcoat. "I must confess, I'm curious to hear of this puzzle not even Sherlock Holmes can solve."

"I see you brought your carpet-bag, shall I take it for you?"

"Yes, thank you, it shouldn't be heavy. By George, it is cold out there! Cold and damp." Rubbing his hands, he went to the table and began to pour himself a mug of coffee. "You've got the right idea, Mr. Holmes, to stay by the fire; that's the thing to do on a crisp night. I will be glad to warm up, myself."

"Just sit anywhere you please, Lestrade," I called over my shoulder as I hung up his coat.

He settled himself in the chair I normally took, and though he made no mention of discomfort I noticed he was careful with his arm.

"Mr. Holmes, the Doctor said on the 'phone that you knew best about the matter. Will you bring me up to date?" Lestrade looked at Holmes over the rim of the coffee mug, blowing on his drink.

Holmes said nothing; as I stepped closer I saw he had clenched his hands. His eyelids were heavy as well, though every time they began to fall closed he opened them with an effort.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "I think you need the coffee more than me, Mr. Holmes; shall I fetch you a cup?"

He nodded, but when Lestrade offered it to him Holmes made no move to take it.

Finally Lestrade cleared his throat quietly. "I think perhaps I will go let your landlady know we appreciate the coffee."

"That would be kind, Lestrade," I agreed. "We'll see you in a bit, then."

He nodded and was gone.

* * *

A/n: In the first draft, Lestrade came out sounding incredibly hyper. I think I fixed that...Anyhoo, thanks for reading. ^^


	18. All a Daze

_"We can't do this by ourselves any longer."_

A hard glint in Watson's eye stills my words. I know beyond logic that I cannot stop him, and so I withdraw to the fireside--I find I am cold. There is something else as well, though; some unnamed feeling.

It is not anxiety. Not boredom, and not grief either. It eats at my stomach lining, as if the bile is burning me. It is not a physical pain, but it is unwelcome all the same. "Uneasy" is the closest word I can come to labeling it. My ears prick in a tired way at the conversation I hear; what can Watson want in bringing Lestrade into this mess? Something distasteful is coming, I can sense it, and as I'm powerless to stop it I may as well think of something else. I shift slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position.

Something is terribly wrong at my centre. I do not think it will ever be right again. What has caused this trembling of my molecules? I am shaken to the core and can feel a light sweat break out upon my forehead.

Nothing can take this horrible sensation away, but surely it is not the only manipulative bit of the equation; perhaps I have to escape it myself. The only escape Watson would allow is sleep, though, and would he even approve of me leaving the sitting room? Likely not. Experience has taught me that the couch is soft enough, but I will not sleep in front of Watson and Lestrade. I'll keep whatever scraps of dignity I can, thank you.

_Scraps?_ When did Sherlock Holmes turn into a begging mongrel? Am I not the master? Can I not do as I wish?...perhaps not. I'm starting to feel quite ill and the thought of any type of movement is laughable. More and more, very quickly in fact, my emotions—usually sleeping beneath the surface—lock my body. It is becoming difficult even to swallow. Perhaps if I catch Watson's eye…but no, what could he possibly do?

And anyway he is quite occupied speaking to Anstruther on the 'phone. A fool could tell that he is not happy with whatever his colleague is telling him; his face drains of colour and his features seem to come together in a knot; and now he dons an expressionless mask, begins to speak very evenly and coolly. I perceive that tonight is not going to be happy for anyone.

The calls are finished, he returns—and shows his ignorance at once. Does he honestly think I will burn myself alive? My poor Watson, I've suffered so much already...an agonizing death is the last kind I'd choose. He stays beside me for what seems to be many hours. The sensation of forboding is growing stronger: my heart begins to beat dully, relentlessly, an internal clock reminding me of what will come.

The dread is softened somewhat by a veil that creeps about me so softly, on cat-burglar feet, and in a flash I find the last really fine pieces of furniture in my brain-attic vandalized by crippling exhaustion. Gravity has intensified, and I can think of nothing but lying down and sleeping. I blink myself back to my senses: if I can't sleep in privacy I am assuredly staying awake.

Lestrade has arrived, and made himself comfortable; I haven't the heart to answer his query. Let him do what he likes. It doesn't matter anymore.

The thought of coffee seems hopeful for a moment, but I cannot even move my hand to accept the mug Lestrade holds out. Faced with this epitome of patheticness, I decide to forget the drink and ignore it when the inspector places it on the floor beside me.

The darkness further digests my brain and I feel an even stronger pull towards sleep. I shan't, though. To lie down on the couch in front of them, like a child, would only make them superior. And if I were to try to leave, and Watson stopped me in front of—no, I won't risk it.

I stifle a yawn and gaze into the fire, at a loss.

What tortures have I brought upon myself?


	19. Dusk and Dawn

a/n: Otherwise known as the World's Shortest Chapter. I'm real sorry, guys, I seem to see and think in snapshots. Longer chapters are coming...eventually...I hope. Certainly I've no shortage of ideas. Xp

* * *

At least five minutes have elapsed since Lestrade's exit. Why hasn't Watson said anything?

He's done nothing but sit beside me and gaze into the fire—the heat of which is making me even drowsier, if that is possible.

My back is beginning to ache from sitting in the same position so long, and my wrist is protesting as well. Without further ado I rise and move to the couch. Walking in a straight line proves tricky to-night, but I reach my destination all the same.

After a moment, Watson picks up the coffee cup I left by the hearth. He sets it carefully on the table, yet does not come back straight away. I hear the squeaking of a shirtsleeve being rubbed on a cold window.

"Lestrade was right, it looks vile out there. I think I'll build up the fire a little--it may grow even colder to-night."

"Hm." I cannot find an upright position which allows me to relax as much as I would like. If I could just get my feet _up_ somehow…Watson seems distracted at the moment, poking at the fire with tongs, so I quietly bring my right leg up to stretch out before me on the couch. It could still pass for a casually alert position, but as far as comfort goes it's even worse. Perhaps...yes, I know.

Holding my breath and stealing a glance at Watson's back, I bring my left leg to join its brother. Now I can turn on my side and lean against the couch. It is admittedly a less professional position, but somehow it doesn't matter quite as much as before. I pillow my head against the couch and let my eyes close.

No sooner do I attempt to relax than a slight shiver begins; I try and fail to ignore it. "Watson?" My eyelids are too heavy to open just now, but I hear a pause in the coal-scraping. "Would you mind just um…handing me an afghan? Only if it's no trouble."

"It's no trouble at all, Holmes."

I feel something made of a rather heavy material being laid over me, and my eyes open at once. "This is your comforter! When did it get into the sitting room?"

"Oh, well it...it really doesn't matter."

I turn over on my back to get a better look at his face, and as my head comes to rest on a cushion I realize what a perfect position I've found. I'll worry later about the blanket's mysterious appearance; all that concerns me is whether it's as soft as it is warm.

Any prior reservations seem all but ridiculous now. I pull the blanket up to my chin and roll over just enough to snug it around me. I find no need to protest when Watson begins to turn down the gas.

"Alright, then?" He asks quietly, and I sense his shadow flickering over me.

I manage a nod. "Alright. Only…Watson?"

"Yes?"

I pause to collect my thoughts, which already strive to break into a hundred dream-pieces. "Promise…no matter what happens…you won't let me be made a fool of?"

"I promise I will do my very best, Holmes."

"But what if—"

He lays a hand on my shoulder, staying my panic-fueled struggle to rise. "Don't think about what may happen, leave it to me for once. Your only task is to rest."

There is much to be unknotted yet, it is hard to put it all in his hands. I wish I could--but I am so weary...perhaps just for a moment, I can let go. Just for a moment...

* * *

A/N: I have not forgotten Lestrade, don't worry. He'll come back into the story soon...guys, this is embarrassing, but I have serious trouble knowing when to start a new paragraph. Unless it's something obvious like dialogue, it's all a blur and I chop it up as best I can. Any feedback is appreciated. *blushes*

Yeah anyway in conclusion this was a very difficult chapter in regards to 1. Knowing what they would do throughout the slightly awkward situation (awkward for a certain person's pride anyway) 2. Knowing exactly what words to use so the right emotional tone would be conveyed; I wanted just a touch of comical but mostly serious, and slightly disoriented. Dude. No one ever said writing was easy...


	20. New Blood

_Lestrade_

"Inspector! I wasn't expecting to see you. Is something wrong?"

"No, no. I only stopped by the kitchen to--but isn't a bit late for you to be baking?"

The landlady reached for the flour, evading my eyes. "Keeps me busy…keeps my mind busy."

"Oh...well, I'd best leave you to your work. I only came to tell you…"

She looked at me, exhaustion in her face. "Inspector?"

"…nothing. I'm sorry to have bothered you."

I took a long time to go back, and when I finally returned to the sitting room door I found it an inch open; I knocked quietly all the same.

* * *

_Watson_

I knelt by the couch, studying Holmes' face. For once the lines of stress were relaxed, though I myself felt in despair as I looked at his hand, curled under his chin; it was bonier than ever. A fine job I had done of making sure he stayed nourished. Yet what was I supposed to do, force him to eat three meals a day? Things were feeling sickeningly familiar.

"Rats in a maze, Holmes," I told him under my breath, watching his steady breathing. "That's all we've been; dashing in circles, running our heads against the wall again and again…I thought I could find the way out, and you actually trusted me. So much for…" He stirred slightly and I fell silent, quietly tugging the comforter up to cover his hand. The comforter…I was glad Holmes hadn't pursued that matter much at all.

A lancing pain brought my hand to my head as my emotions continued to stew. There was nothing to do but sit and burn inside; I had no names for the agony, no knowledge of a neutralizer. I only knew I was at a loss in every way imaginable.

Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Holmes, Mycroft, Anstruther—the names came to me in a flash, yet I could not burden them with my troubles—especially not Holmes, he was barely holding on as it was. It was in moments like these that I was nearly ready to agree with my friend; emotions served no purpose but to confuse. I wished I could do away with all the painful thoughts cutting me up inside.

_When did everything fall apart, Holmes? When did everything become ruined, naught but broken memories heaped about us? Everything seems the same—same walls, same London weather, day and night coming and going—but it's not_…my gaze chanced to fall on his violin case, under a layer of dust, and I felt a deep and bitterly confusing sense of loss. _It will never be the same._

A knock on the door…I passed my hand over my eyes and stood with a great effort. "Come in…"

* * *

_Lestrade_

My eye was drawn to the couch as soon as I entered. It is one thing to know, in the back of your mind, that all men must sleep. It's another to step into a dimly lit room and see Sherlock Holmes stretched out and slumbering beneath a blanket. I backed away a few steps, looking to the doctor.

"You've never seen him asleep before, have you?"

"I suppose not. Feels…wrong, almost, like he would mind."

"I know. I had to get used to it." He sighed, then seemed to notice me for the first time. "I apologize, Lestrade, do sit down; we must talk, only keep your voice lowered."

I nodded and watched him expectantly as he gathered his thoughts. All that had happened during this latest visit to Baker Street was most unusual, and I had no doubts his next words would fit that pattern.

"You know, I am sure, of Holmes' cocaine habit."

I spoke in a low tone, matching his hushed voice. "Yes, you've always written freely of it. I am an open man, Doctor, but even I was taken aback—"

The doctor made an impatient gesture. "That means nothing now. The main thing is—he's trying to stop it. We're both trying to find a way. But it has a grip, and the damn thing won't let go." He paused, rubbing the side of his head. "Seems…it wants to kill us all in the end."

"What have you tried?"

"A book…we have a book." Going to a desk drawer, he brought out a blue and silver volume, and sat back down heavily. "We wrote down…well, it was going to be a chart of sorts…observations. But I'm afraid we weren't organized enough about it. It's one thing to start a task, another to finish."

Slowly, I realized that I was being drawn into much more than a case. "What was the latest observation?"

"We had just decided we needed to make our goal absolutely plain, but..."

"Isn't the goal plain enough, doctor? To break the habit I should think."

He shook his head. "It seems simple, I know. But how to get there? You can't just say you will climb a mountain. You have to list the supplies you need, where to get them, establish a time frame, find companions…"

"So you're not talking strictly about the goal. You know the goal, it's only you want a plan—why the face? It is true, isn't it? You need a map, a guide. Well, it seems you have a good enough start; hand the book here, I'd like to take a look. Hand it here, I can't help if—that is, I'm guessing that's why you called me, to help?"

He looked away. "It's too much for the two of us alone, and…he must be watched."

"But he's not that ill, is he? Seems he's only tired."

"That's not what I mean." His eyes bored into me. "I fear he may do himself harm."

"No." I looked at the peacefully sleeping figure. "No, you're mistaken there. Not Mr Holmes--he's too strong for…what's that?" I leaned forward to accept the book he thrust at me; he'd opened it to a pen-and-ink sketch. "A dark picture…who drew this?"

"Who d'you think, man?" He snatched the book back. "You have to believe me on this. One of us has to be awake, and with him. Always."

I ran my tongue over suddenly dry lips. "All right, I'll take your word. But how about your job? Your patients? What are you going to—"

"I pushed them onto Anstruther."

"Don't be too hard on yourself, Doctor; he's your colleague, surely he understands."

He brushed my words aside with a gesture of his hand. "At any rate, I have to make my rounds for the most part. That's where you come in, Lestrade. I'll need you to stay here and keep him company."

"What if he doesn't want—"

"It's beyond that now. We have to do what's for the best."

I bent my head a moment. What had started out seeming like a strange and fantastic case was beginning to turn terribly dark and depressing. When at last I looked up with a nod, I noticed the dullness in his eyes. "Doctor, you look exhausted--you should take some rest."

He frowned. "But you'll wake me if he wakes?"

"Of course. And feel free to go up to your room, I'm sure your bed is more comfortable than the chair."

"Thank you, but I prefer to stay."

"Well all right, then. It's your choice," I added, getting up to top off my cup of coffee. I set down the pot clumsily with my left hand, and when I turned round I saw the doctor had fallen into an uneasy sleep. I stood a moment in the silence, blowing steam from my drink. My gaze was caught by the blue and silver book resting on the doctor's lap, sparkling in the firelight. I took several steps toward it before I was able to suppress my curiosity.

I settled carefully into my own chair, giving a soft lament as my arm protested anyway. I would have to take a painkiller in an hour or so...raising my eyes in resignation, I took a drink of the bitter coffee. Hopefully I could return to the Yard soon. It felt far too long since I had been able to don my uniform and put my mind to work.

In the meantime, it seemed I had found a new way to keep busy. I surveyed the room--all seemed well for the time; the Doctor and Mr Holmes were lost in their dreams, and the fire was blazing strong in the grate. I'd make sure it stayed that way through the night.

Straightening my shoulders, I drew a deep breath.

I'd prove to the both of them that I had been the right choice.

* * *

A/N: I'm working very hard on this story. That's all I really have to say. Thanks for reading.


	21. Plant of Slow Growth

**A/N:** *****groans, rubs head***** Teh writings iz hard work! Hope you like it though.

* * *

"Did you say something, Mr Holmes?" I looked over to the detective, as still as ever on the couch. Must have been my imagination. I continued flipping through my beat book, stopping at an illustration I had scrawled of a candy shop. The rumors of poisoned sweets had been disproved but my sketch remained, and taking a pencil I began filling the badly drawn window with even worse sketches of penny candy bags. After finishing that I was tempted to liven the drawing up with a few cockroaches _in_ the bags...anything to clear the dark cloud of boredom.

Wait a bit, there was the noise again—but this time it was almost a whimper. I stepped quietly to the couch and looked down at Mr Holmes; he was breathing very fast, and his brow was tight. Surely it couldn't be a nightmare...not him...

He sat up suddenly with a gasp, almost knocking into me. I jumped back and our eyes locked. His glare was as fierce as ever and I backed still further away. He drew the quilt about his shoulders and looked at me from under his brows. "You're still here, I see. After...oh, has it been three days? Apparently you're unfamiliar with Benjamin Franklin."

"I know--I'm not your first choice of a companion," I began haltingly, willing my heart to slow. "But the doctor had to see to his rounds, and...and...pardon my boldness, but would you like a sedative, Mr Holmes?" I was not about to pry into what he had been dreaming, but it must have been truly horrible.

"If Watson is on his rounds, he surely took his bag." His stiffened shoulders did nothing to control the trembling in his great frame.

"Ah, but he's not the only one who carries them. I have a few in my bag, and I can easily spare one. Look--"

"No. I said no, Lestrade. I'm--I'm fine."

"Glass of water, then?" I asked after a pause. He gave an indifferent nod so I stepped to the pitcher on the table. I heard his voice behind me, masterful as always but with a lingering tremor.

"May I ask what a Yard Inspector is doing, carrying sedatives on his person? Ah, but I recall now…hearing Watson speak with you on the phone. Of course I only heard his side of the conversation, but I gathered you had been injured."

"Yes, last May it was. The Fenians had some fun. But I'll say this for them, they keep their word. They said they'd blow up Scotland Yard and damned if they didn't! We're just lucky they did the job at nine o'clock in the night, very few people were injured." The pitcher slipped in my grasp and cold water slopped onto my trouser leg; I swore softly and blotted it with my sleeve.

"Well? Aren't you going to elaborate on just how you received the injury?"

"It's not the stuff of legends, I'm afraid; I was having a whisky at the Rising Sun--oh, stop your snickering! Wasn't my fault I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or right place wrong time, as it may be. The pub wall was damaged, in addition to the Yard building. I was knocked down and out, and when I woke my arm was broken. It was…a compound fracture, I think it's called, but of course that's not my specialty. Any road, here's the water." I had poured a glass for myself as well.

He drained half the glass with his eyes closed. "What will you do when your arm is mended?"

"Return to Scotland Yard of course! What did you think?"

He shrugged. "Some would find another occupation, if their present one led to broken bones."

"Ah, but no occupation is completely without risks, Mr Holmes; even an onion seller might be trampled in the street."

"Quite true," he agreed, running a smoothing hand through his hair. "I must say though, it seems the Yard was taking one risk too many by ignoring the bomb warning."

I ran a finger around my collar, avoiding his gaze. Finally I spoke quietly. "I suppose you have me there, Mr Holmes. We made a bad decision, and now must pay the piper. It's embarrassing for the Superintendant, and of course the whole thing worsens the public's opinion of the Yard...they mistrust us enough already. Two more bombs went off later that night, too. I feel very…ineffectual."

"Probably because the whole lot of you are."

"D'you know something, Mr Holmes? D'you know something? We may not be as clever as you, down at the Yard, but we're no less brave and we're no less stubborn. You think you're brave for taking a bullet now and then; Officer Grantham _died_. He died in the line of duty."

"It was decided as a justified--"

"I don't care. It wasn't his fault! The yard had just been established and he was finding his way, like the rest. Let me just tell you this, Mr Holmes: it's one thing to have a powerful brain and a magnifying glass and nothing to stop you from sniffing all about a crime scene; it's quite another to be under someone's charge and to have someone under yours, to be saddled with endless papers to fill out and check, to know that bending the rules means losing your job, not getting praised and fêted for being some hero."

"I never doubted it; it's why I choose to go it alone. It is...the better way."

"Oh, poppycock! You're not England's savior! You couldn't even handle Greater London. And suppose all us idiots at the Yard vanished and you could run London as you like--then you'd really see. If, say, you found the fifty cleverest men in the world--because you could not possibly do everything--and you trained them in your ways, and bid them guard the city--you'd still need to make sure there was no overlap, that all the streets were covered adequately. You'd have to communicate with everyone to detect patterns of crime, for what if some murderer had a path that crossed through two or more of your chaps' beats? It would end up just as bloody complicated. In the grand scheme, your glorified idea of a lone wolf detective is useless!" I finished with a snap, pausing for breath and looking for his reaction.

His head was sunk forward onto his breast, and his eyes were downcast. I noticed a stain around his collar and realized he was sweating through his clothes.

"Mr Holmes, I forgot myself--"

He dismissed my words with a wave of an unsteady hand. "I'd no right to call you ineffectual; I have not solved a case for some time, and God only knows if I have any more use left in me. Don't look at me like that, it doesn't matter. The battle against crime is forever. We are human, you and I; we cannot change human natures' bend towards evil. All we can do is throw ourselves like sacks of sand against the raging tidal wave. We'll all die in duty, in the end, if we serve long and hard enough. Somewhere out there, in some dark alley or lonely country field, is a bullet or knife or what have you with my name on it. It's as certain to me as one and one make two. I'm not afraid to die, Lestrade."

"I know that, Mr Holmes. But are you afraid to live?"

"That's...no concern of yours," he said at last, setting the glass of water firmly on the end table and looking to the window, where the fog swirled against the pane.

"Isn't it?" I murmured below my breath, adding in a normal tone, "You do plan on returning to your work eventually, though?"

He did not reply, though his gray eyes strayed to the bookshelves twice, each time jumping away as if the sight burnt him.

Silence fell over the room until I shifted carelessly. "Ah...!"

"Your arm?"

I nodded, taking a moment to catch my breath. I felt his eyes upon me as I knelt before my carpet-bag and drew out a little tin.

"Lestrade--as long as you have it out, I suppose I wouldn't mind...thank you." He downed the pill quickly and then craned his neck, looking into my open bag as I swallowed my pain killer. "That's your uniform in there, isn't it."

I began hurriedly to close the bag. "I didn't mean for--"

"May I see it? No, I'm not joking. Hand it here." He stretched out his hand and took the blue trousers from me. A ghost of a smile came to his face as he ran the material through his fingers, studying it with half-lidded eyes. "You're very fond of your uniform, I see. I deduce it through the clumsy stitching at the cuff...no woman could possibly handle a needle and thread this badly."

"Yes, well, I don't like anyone else doing things to my uniform…funny little thing about me. All right, you've had your look. Oh--well, thank you Mr Holmes," I added in surprise as he folded the trousers carefully before handing them back. "Hopefully I'll be in them soon. Can't be soon enough for me," I finished softly, placing the uniform back in my carpet bag and pocketing my tin of pills. "What time do you usually lunch?"

"12.30," he replied after a moment's pause, his eye following my hand. "You're hungry?"

"No, an hour's the perfect time to wait. I want to be ready for your landlady's excellent cooking."

"She has a way with the ladle and knife, there's no denying," Mr Holmes murmured absently.

"Is...is it taking effect yet, d'you think?"

He rubbed his eyes, finishing a yawn. "Pardon, Lestrade, I didn't catch that."

"I said, I imagine Watson will be back soon?"

"Oh…very probably. He generally does come back for lunch. By the way, Lestrade, I was meaning to tell you."

"Hm?"

"I was awake a few minutes last night, when you are Watson were talking...or were just finishing your talk, I should say. I saw the choice you made, and I commend you. Dear me, you really should have posed for Sir Tenniel; you make quite a fine Cheshire Cat. Now, I think I should like to sleep a little more, if you have no objection. Wake me for lunch and Watson, if you please."

He hesitated a moment and a bit of colour came to his face; I busied myself with my book and after a little while I heard him settling down uneasily, and his breathing evened and deepened. Hopefully his dreams would be untroubled.

I flipped to a blank page of my book and began recording as much of our conversation as I could recall. Perhaps the doctor would see things I had missed in our words, perhaps not, but the important thing was not to take a chance. My left hand began cramping in protest at this unfamiliar task, so I paused and looked to the couch. I smiled as I remembered the sly words he'd said just minutes ago, but it died from my lips as I realized his hair was still wet with cold sweat.

"Holmes."


	22. Turning Point

a/n: Oh wow, this chapter took forever. And excluding the actual writing--because it was the wrong format when I pasted it in I had to manually double-space and there are still formatting bugs I don't have the engery to tweak right now. A little sleep, perhaps...XD This chapter is by no means perfect and I would welcome constructive critisism. Cool? Cool. And now the curtain rises...oh, the separater bar isn't working right now at the top of the page, so I have to use o's. Just imagine it's a spooky night...XDD

Edit: Thanks for the reviews so far, everyone! I want to wait for a little more feedback before I attempt any serious reworking of this chapter, but I will try to get the typos earlier. I think I've learned not to post at 4 am. XD

**OOooooooooooOO**

Mr Holmes woke on his own, straight away hunting down a pipe and packing it to the top with tobacco. I could not help staring—he was very twitchy, even for Sherlock Holmes. As he touched the flaring match to the pipe bowl he glanced at me, with mild irritation it seemed—as though I were some out-of-place object.

"Is everything all right?" I ventured.

He looked reflectively at the ceiling, exhaling smoke."I imagine there are several wars going on in various quarters of the world—famine and murder, no, Lestrade, everything is not all right."He returned the pipe to his mouth, seeming to find great interest in the fireplace mantel.

"I only meant—"

We looked up at a slow, steady step on the stairs, and when the Doctor entered the sitting room, a ghost of a smile lit on Holmes' lips for a moment.

"Well, hallo! I see you're awake at last, Holmes—and losing no time having a smoke, I see," he sighed, turning from the coat hook and glancing my way. "Your nose isn't deceiving you, Lestrade; lunch should be ready with the half-hour, Mrs. Hudson told me—good heavens, must you really be so careful with that arm? Sit back down, I want to have a look at it."

He was still in medical mode from his rounds, and my protests fell on deaf a very few minutes he had rolled up his sleeves, drawn up a footstool and rolled my own sleeve to my shoulder; he had to rip the seam with a penknife to get it cuffed high enough, and my outraged squawk fell on deaf ears as well.

I forgot the matter when his face turned grave.

"It should not be swollen like that," the doctor murmured, carefully prodding my upper arm. "Easy Lestrade--this will only take a moment--"

The burst of pain stole my breath, and I grimaced at a sickening grating sound.

"I'm done for now. Try to take a deep breath---"

When the room came to a stop, I saw Holmes still puffing his pipe. "Diagnosis, Watson?"

"A nonunion. Lestrade, the bone is still completely broken. What doctor have you been seeing?"

"Feldspar. I was, any road—He said a break of this kind didn't need a cast, 'twoud heal on its own. I was so anxious to get back to work I…well…I suppose I did harass him a bit. He got quite sick of the sight of me, and eventually he said I could find another doctor."

Holmes took his pipe from his mouth.

Watson frowned. "Normally, he's right about that, but it doesn't always happen without intervention. Well, so what doctor did you go to?"

"I'd rather not discuss it."

"If it's some matter of confidentiality, you needn't worry about--"

"No, nothing of the 's only—well, I was so eager to get back—I um…I suppose, looking back, I wasn't the ideal patient…well, long and short of it is, no doctor wanted me.I know I was a bit obnoxious, but--I only wanted to get back on the job! I only wanted…"

"Well—why didn't you ask me?"

"You're so busy all the time," I said quietly, looking at my lap. "And I suppose…I was afraid you wouldn't want me either."

There was silence for a time, except for the sound of Holmes' fingers drumming rapidly against the wall.

"Well, you were wrong about that," the doctor said quietly. "Now I must splint your arm so the bones will be properly aligned and held absolutely steady. Sometimes they need the extra help. Do you want morphine?"

"No, I don't want to take anything."

"Nothing? Are you sure, Lestrade? It's no trouble—"

"Thank you, Doctor, but no.I'd like to stay alert."

"But…all right, if you insist.I'm not going to force you."He brought his bag to my chair."The reduction will be painful, but short."

"Do what you must, Doctor."

"Don't look at what I'm doing," he said calmly. "Keep your eyes on some object in the room. Ready? On three, then…"

I could not hold back a cry at the crippling pain that exploded up my I opened my eyes, I found that Holmes was watching quietly. I coloured and looked away, clenching my left hand to keep from pushing the doctor away.

"Nearly there, Lestrade, I'm going to bind on the brace now. Just a little more..."

My fingers tightened as the pain reach white-hot levels. A hot, dizzying blackness was about me, but then it dissolved and I felt myself being leaned back.

"It's done; your arm should finally begin to mend now. Lestrade?"

Holmes' mocking expression was on me as the doctor put a water glass in my hand. I was a bit put off my ease by the intensity of Holmes' gaze, but tried to ignore it as I took a drink.

"I appreciate it, doctor."

"It is nothing; a doctor's duty…and a friend's," he added, meeting my gaze a moment before clearing up his supplies. "Just rest a moment, and I will tell Mrs. Hudson to bring lunch. You look like you could use something in your stomach."

* * *

When we had finished eating—or in Holmes' case, pretending to eat—we decided to have an after-lunch smoke before Watson had to go back to his rounds.

I had not yet lit my cigarette when Holmes walked by on his way to his armchair, snapping a match of his own to life; he touched it to his cigarette, glanced at me and shook the match out.

I didn't feel like smoking anymore.

Holmes, however, was smoking quite rapidly. His brow was growing darker and darker, as if every gloomy thought in the world was being drawn into him and intensifying the blackness of his mood.

Now that Watson's attention was freed from my arm, he was beginning to look deeply concerned about his friend. A remark from him, however, only drew a snarl from Holmes.

Holmes pitched his cigarette end in the general direction of the grate and lit another one. He smoked this one at an even faster rate, and he began tapping his foot rapidly on the floor.

He looked at us warily when he realized we had stopped talking to each other; his hand scrabbled in his pocket for another match and cigarette. His hand was too jumpy to even strike the match, and we watched quietly for a few minutes. When he saw there was no smirk on my face, he relaxed somewhat, the trembling abated just a touch, and when Watson offered to give Holmes a light from his own still-glowing cigarette, the detective agreed almost graciously.

"I'm not lighting the next one, though," Watson said kindly, as he held his smoke out. "If you keep up this rate much longer you'll be dead by dinner."

"Hmh." Holmes coaxed his cigarette to life with a few puffs and leaned back. "I can't see too much awry with that. Don't look at me like that, Watson. I was only joking…mostly."

He smoked this one so fast that he began coughing and choking; Watson took the smoke from him and I fetched him a glass of water. He couldn't drink for a while, and Watson and I waited patiently until he caught his breath. He took the glass from me with a hoarsely muttered thanks, though he didn't look me in the eye.

When he finished drinking, he leaned back with a sigh which turned into another cough. "Watson, I'm fine, really.I'll stop coughing soon, I'm sure. "

"That's not what I'm worried about," Watson's gaze was piercing.

Holmes paused, then looked from me back to the doctor.

"That's why Lestrade is here," Watson said calmly.

There was silence for a long time—incredibly long. Several times I drew a breath to speak, but the Doctor stayed me with a must have been half an hour before Holmes spoke next.

Holmes closed his eyes. "I realized this a little while ago, but—well, listen.I was taking cocaine, we—you and I, Watson-- agreed it was ...harmful, and so I should stop. We tried to find a way. It seemed simple, and straightforward. But really, it wasn't." Though his voice was low, it was growing in intensity. "We haven't dealt with the problem at all, only a manifestation of the problem, oh Watson--we're idiots. Idiots! You might as well check a patient, see she has a fever, and prescribe an ice bath. Meanwhile she is dying of influenza. No, listen!" he struggled to his feet, teetering a moment before starting to pacing jerkily about. "I take—took—the drug for a reason. And that was, my mind had to be occupied or I would go insane.

"Without data the mind will go to pieces, without fuel an engine will as well--but the difference between the two is this: one can decide the train shall stop running at such and such a time, and then no more coal need be added.

Not so for me, Watson! My mind will never stop until the day I _die_, and so I must always, always, always be adding fuel. So it's no use, it's just the way I was made. I'm destined to suffer, to either die from exhaustion shoveling fuel, or die when the fuel is gone. No matter what, all the life gets burned out of me." He collapsed into a chair by the table. His hand was buried in his hair up to the roots and his other made a fist by his side.

"Holmes you're right." The doctor lay his arm on the back of the couch, twisting so he could see his friend. "The cocaine is not the problem, the problem is your overactive mind and you were using the cocaine as a solution."

He gave a bitter laugh at the unintended pun. "So now that everything's fallen apart, and our plan has come to naught, what are we to do?" He sneered, a horrible darkness entering his eyes. "Well, I know one thing." Stepping unevenly to the desk, he fumbled in his pocket, stabbed a key into the lock and twisted viciously. He jerked the drawer open and thrust his hand inside, drawing out the moved to the fireplace, drawing his arm back.

The doctor leaped to his feet. "Holmes stop. You're not thinking—you'll do something you may regret. It's my fault--"

"Get out of my way, Watson."

The doctor did not move, and I went to stand beside him. "Holmes, you'd be a fool to turn back now. You say this train always needs fuel. That may be; but you're one of few men brilliant enough to redesign the engine.I know you can."

His eyes flicked from one of us to the other, his knuckles were white around the book. "I'll give you one chance, right now, to prove yourself. If you can't, I really don't see why I should listen to either of you."

Watson and I looked at each other. "That's fair enough, Holmes," Watson said at last. "I don't blame you for being angry--I didn't keep up with the plan."

"That goes without saying," Holmes said in a clipped voice. "I'll give you two minutes, and I call that generous."

Two minutes...I looked to the clock, ticking relentlessly...it was 1.30 now. Holmes had been awake for about two and a half hours. But when had he started showing symptoms? Soon after he woke, I thought. My mind pawed at the bits of data but could attach no real meaning. However, there was no time to hammer out one of Holmes' iron-strong theories before opening my mouth. "If you write down what time--what time you first felt it today, then when it is gone, you write down that time..."

"Yes?" Holmes raised a dangerous brow.

Watson continued. "Then, you'll start getting an idea of how long it takes for the—the craving to subside. Do it every time. You can find the average. Anything's easier when you know how long you have to wait—when it's defined, not vague."

Holmes paused. "Well, it's not the stupidest idea I've ever heard, I'll give you that." He chewed his lip a moment. "I don't think I've reached the second time, yet."

"Let's write down the first," the doctor suggested. "Then, just flip back to one of the first pages where we made the list of distractions--ah, here's a pencil. So, write the time--"

"Don't rush me!" he snapped, grabbing the pencil and running his finger over the blue and silver cover; it left a damp mark behind. He flipped open the book and meandered to the first blank page--I think we all winced when he flipped past the noose sketch. He noted the date and the time in a methodical hand, then flipped his way back very slowly to the beginning."Here 'tis," he sighed, running his finger down the list. "No, no, no and no--nothing _feels right_. I'm not who I was when I wrote this list."

"Then we need to make a new list," Watson said. He glanced at the clock. "Confound it," he murmured before bringing his attention back."For now let's try to rough out a list that—Holmes?"

He was sighing unhappily, rubbing his head.

Watson's eyes darted about the room, fastening on the stepped to it purposefully, pulling down a slim and much-battered pressed it into his friend's long hands, gently taking the blue and silver book in spoke over his shoulder as he went to the desk to replace it."I want you to read verse eleven, and write about how disgusting the romantic description of the meadow and bees is."

"What?"

I could almost call it a laugh, what came from the detective then.

"Yes. Criticize it as much as you want, and then move on to the next verse.I'm sorry, Lestrade, I must return to my rounds—there's a young man with—and then the girl—well, I must go. Truthfully, Holmes, do you think you'll be all right?"

"I'll make it be all you will be back soon?Ah, good."With a final nod, Holmes flipped open George Meredith's "Modern Love" and began reading, a superior smile already creeping across his face.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," the doctor said breathlessly to me, catching up his coat, bag and hat."Go easy on the arm, and take notes of anything you think important."

"Of course, Doctor."I didn't point out the , I ferreted out my beat book and clumsily flipped to a blank I was to be a co-engineer, I had to put in the hours.

I looked up at an amused snort.

"'Honey of spring,' pah!I know street urchins who could writer better poetry."Holmes paused and looked at me."I say, Lestrade, you never had a smoke, did you?Would you like a light?I have a few matches here."


	23. Locks

A/n: My heart aches with gratitude to Kai. Her writing has inspired me not to give up, I still believe in the power of words. Not to get sappy, but…I'm just so grateful.

In other news, I am aware of the switch of tenses in this chapter. It came out that way and I decided to leave it.

* * *

Common objects, everyday things, have symbolic meaning if you look. Gates, for example, can be endlessly analyzed. Is their purpose to fence in friends or bar strangers? What of the gates that could be hopped over by a tall child—clearly those structures are a quiet request for privacy, and a declaration of trust in human decency.

Keys are another of those objects, and—more importantly—keyholes. There are many types, with a single purpose, and myriad meanings. I sit now, quietly, by his chest of drawers, my finger tracing the cold brass border of the keyhole. It's not that I want to get inside, exactly.

If I truly wanted to, I'd have picked the lock hours ago.

No, it's not with longing my finger traverses the metal, gleaming dully in the last light of afternoon. It's…what is it…

"Holmes?"

Blast, he's home early.

"What are you doing in my room?"

"Nothing."

He stands a moment in the doorway, then moves toward me, reaching into his pocket. "Could you move just a tad, Holmes? Thank you."

I listen closely to the awkward clicking as he turns the key, pulls open the drawer and hides his medical bag away; I catch a glance at the several small bottles pushed back to the corner. He slides the drawer shut hastily, his hand fumbling with the key. He drops it in his pocket at once.

One would think it had just been forged.

He takes off his coat, hangs it on the bedpost, sits on his bed and clasps his hands. "How was your day?"

"All right enough."

"Did you get outside?"

"No."

"Write anything?"

"No—yes. Wait a bit…" I fish in my pocket.

"My last patient wasn't home; they must have forgotten I was coming," he says, filling the silence. "Oh, and I chanced to run into Lestrade. He said to say hello to you. Hoped…well. You know."

"I know. Here it is, I'll copy it into the book later."

He takes it, examines, makes a face. "Holmes…"

"You didn't say it had to be in English."

"Have you any idea how aggravating you be?"

"Some. I could give you the general idea…"

"That would be excellent, Holmes—"

"But I won't."

He grabbed his pillow and threw it at me; I caught it neatly and began looking it over.

"Well—I won't force the matter, Holmes. As long as you're working on it I'll try to be content. But you have me at the advantage, and it would be pretty mean of you to just be writing some gibberish every day."

"No no, I have it perfectly," I replied, turning his pillow over and continuing the inspection.

"Good. And—Holmes—"

"Hm?"

"Not to bring up…awkward matters, but…"

I glanced up and met his troubled eyes. "I'm all right, Watson. There's nothing to worry about, at least, not that."

"For certain?"

"On my honor."

He relaxed visibly. "I'm glad. Shall we have some tea, then?"

"Why not?" I got to my feet.

"First tell me what you deduced from my pillow." He took it from me and settled it back on the head of his bed.

"One thing, mainly: it's coming up on laundry day."

Watson attempted to look stern and failed, and with a comment about my outrageous impertinence, he left the room ahead of me, still chuckling.

I glanced at the coat on the bedpost before I left, and smiled sadly as I slipped through the doorway to follow him.

* * *


	24. Fresh Air

A/n: Keatings was a type of bug powder, used to discourage bugs. In case you wonder.

* * *

It's strange, but I see everything through a different filter now. Everything I see, makes me happy in a way. I don't exactly understand it, but I seem to be tapping into a different set of associations, if that makes sense. I look upon the window, and the glass seems clearer than ever, the cracks in the frame are so defined, so vivid and real; I can almost feel a fresh breeze from a happier past stirring my memories, but at the same time it is mixed with possibilities, not only what has been, but what may be. It…I see things that may happen, that I want to happen, that I think perhaps I can make happen.

I have much more energy to live, to feel, to laugh, to begin experiments, to be daring. I feel passion again! I can solve problems, and just walking about and pouring a glass of water is no longer something that must be thought through laboriously and executed carefully, step by step.

I still see no clear future for myself, have no great glorious purpose to be alive, but I do feel cheerier and more hopeful.

I also feel like a traitor to my other half. It may seem absurd, but I have left a part of myself behind. Is that really possible, to just lose a part of yourself? How will I relate to what I knew before? Have I outgrown certain things? In a way, the future seems even more uncertain than before.

I have crawled out of some cocoon, blinking in the sun and trying to fan my new, and quite clumsy, wings.

I hope this will indeed be for the best.

For I'll not lie, it's confusing to rise from this blackness. It's pleasant, like coming out of prison, but slightly disorienting. Where do I go now? The darkness and the hell were torture but at least I was not lost, in some sense. At least, even when I was bashing my head against the labyrinthine wall for the hundredth time, I knew that wall. I knew its every chip and pock and chalked up slur, and at least when I was so furious I wanted to throw something, I knew where a stone or stick or bone lay. Now that I—well, my friend and I—followed the spool of thread to the light…what do I do?

What happens next?

I'm not terribly anxious at the unknowing, but it is stymieing. I am a happy fool, blinking in the long-hidden sunshine, perfectly content to live in the moment, feeling no stress over the morrow, and yet this fool has no clue what to do with himself. Something very stupid and ridiculous, like throw snowballs or make a daisy chain.

I am slightly giddy and anchorless, goalless and a bit intoxicated with life.

"Holmes?" He pokes his head in my room. "Fancy a walk?"

"Hmm…well, why not?"

"Why not indeed, that's what I say! Don't bother with your coat, I've just been out, it's glorious."

We're almost to the door, when I pull up short. Feeling this happy can't be natural. Surely I will sink into a depression any moment, there must be some price. Anyway I don't deserve to feel this happy.

He gives me a gentle tug. "Come on, it's the best part of the day! Just smell the air!"

I do catch a whiff of the fresh air, from what he let in the front door a moment ago. I grasp his arm.

I want to go out; I want to try my wings.

-----------------------------------------------------------

I opened the door and we stepped out, Holmes gasped at the crisp air. Blinked at the brightness. "Welcome to the world," I laughed, linking my arm in his.

"I had forgotten what it was like," he murmured, reaching up to hold his hat as a cab blurred by. An onion-seller was calling a stone's throw behind us and a straggle of laughing children ran down the street, pushing between us thoughtlessly.

He blinked at me.

"Well? Shall we go on?" I pulled him closer and gave a reassuring smile.

He gripped my arm and nodded.

It was only in the last few days he had finally begun writing in the book in English, rather than cryptic codes. More importantly (to me) he had let me look through it, and I had written a few encouraging notes to him in the margins. His last entry had been a realization that, strangely enough, certain objects, thoughts or even words seemed to trigger the craving in his mind; he was still searching for methods to avoid these "points of irritation."

I need not say, I was deeply touched at being allowed such an intimate look into his mind.

If I hadn't been feeling so pleased with myself, I might have taken more care as to where we walked. As it was, we were passing Hyde Park when Holmes stopped abruptly and fixed his gaze across the street; I wanted to kick myself for my unforgiveable blunder. Holmes was mesmerized by James Usher's store, which we were walking right past. We could see the twinkling flasks through the window.

"Perhaps we'd better move on, Holmes." I tugged at his arm.

"Perhaps so," he mumbled.

As we took our leave, I looked carefully at Holmes; he seemed slightly dazed.

"Master your mind, Holmes," I whispered under my breath. "Don't let it master you. Come back, Holmes, I don't like where your thoughts are going. Can you come back?"

"Not on my own, I'm afraid," he whispered back, meeting my gaze with difficulty.

I breathed a prayer under my breath and picked up our pace. "Holmes, tell me of the storing of violins? You haven't touched yours for some weeks. Suppose cockroaches were to creep inside the case?"

"Oh, no, that would not happen," he assured me with a miserable sigh. "I dusted the inside carefully with keating's, you see…" he broke off with a queer smile. "Watson, that puts me in mind of an amusing story, would you like to hear it? Very well: it happened this way. I had not been playing violin long, and so was still uncertain when it came to using rosin. Now it happened that my mother kept quite a lot of keatings about the house and…"

He shifted his walking stick to the other hand so he could make expressive gestures, and as his grey eyes took on a more normal look I silently thanked Providence for helping us take yet another step.


	25. Clouds

As I rather suspected, the child-like euphoria did not last long. It's the next day and already things are more mundane, duller, and take more effort to complete. But I still complete them, and it is not as hard as before. My engine is running again, at its lowest effort perhaps but it is going, and that is quite different from the cold, dead internal silence of before.

I tidied up my chemistry corner a little—I am not a tidy man, as Watson will openly attest, but an experiment cannot be properly run without some little order. Some of the labels on the chemicals were peeling off and smudged; I took care in writing fresh labels for the HCl and the Florine.

And then when I was rinsing the ink from my hands I noticed my nails were really in a sad state, unusual for me. I had been neglecting, as Watson put it, my certain quiet primness of dress…I must put this right. I went to my room, found my nail scissors and spent a good of time making myself more presentable.

Watson rapped on my door after a little, and he seemed to have some look of mischief and expectation. "Ah, you are getting ready?"

"Ready for what?"

His face fell. "Haven't you read it yet?"

I glanced about the room and saw he had placed a letter on my pillow. "I hadn't noticed it."

"Well?"

"Watson, do I interrupt you when you're cutting your nails?" Though my tone was severe, I was already reaching for the envelope. I pulled the letter out and unfolded it with a flourish, purused the contents and hid a smile. "You are a ridiculous man."

"I'll pay."

"Watson, you're absurd."

"Three months without it, that means a great deal, Holmes."

"You really want to celebrate?"

"Don't you?"

"I can't say no to Simpsons. Go and change to your evening clothes; I'll do the same and meet you in the sitting room."

------------------------------------------------

Normally I don't pay much energy for trifles, but tonight I couldn't help paying attention to every detail. I was standing in my room with a pair of suspenders in each hand, weighing the choices, when there was a rap on my door.

"Yes, Holmes, I'm nearly ready."

He sprang in and paced about my room with a sprightly step. "Hurry, man, I'm getting hungry."

"Something I thought I would never hear you say. Only a minute, and I'll be ready. Shall we get appetizers tonight?"

"Yes, yes, of course we shall. Haven't you chosen a waistcoat yet? I shall do so for you."

"Holmes, you needn't—"

"It's more time-efficient if I do."

And with a happy hum, he jerked open my bureau drawer and began flinging my things about. "I should think this one, with the buttons—"

"Hm? What about the buttons?" I was having a little trouble fastening my suspenders; it was a moment before I turned. "Holmes?"

His back was to me, but I could see the waistcoat slipping from his suddenly limp fingers.

"Holmes, what is the matter?"

"I am not sure. Perhaps…perhaps I allowed myself to become overexcited. I will sit down a moment." He walked with a faltering step to my bed and sat on the edge, evading my gaze.

I came to stand before him. His eyes…his breathing…

He put his fingers to his temples. "Perhaps as a medical man you can explain, Watson, this curious phenomena. I have not touched it for several months, and yet…" his voice was unsteady, and I could hear his teeth gritting.

"I don't understand, Holmes, and cannot explain." I sat beside him and tried to put my arm on his shoulder, but he pushed me away with a powerful shove.

"Don't touch me, Watson!"

He bent forward until his chest touched his knees, and closed his eyes tightly. "I will not let it master me," he breathed. "I will not let it master me…"

I sat near him, trying to control my own trembling. I hope never again to witness the scene which unfolded next. The expression on his face was enough to choke me. Fear, anger, confusion and then absolute disgust. And it was only downhill from there.

"What would you like to do?" My words broke a silence which had hovered for nearly an hour.

Holmes pushed himself to a sitting position and ran his hand across his forehead. "You don't know what I want to do. But I will tell you what I am going to do. I am going to wash up, change my collar and wait for you to finish getting ready. And then we are going to get dinner as we had planned."

"Are you certain—"

"No. but that is what we are going to do." He got to his feet and stood with a set glare, which softened a bit of a sudden. "I didn't hurt you, did I Watson? When I…pushed you?"

"Not at all, Holmes."

"Good. I will meet you in the sitting room in a quarter of an hour, then."

"Holmes, forgive me, but I cannot leave you alone. Neither of us knows what happened, and I--I'm worried for your health, for all we know you may collapse. You must wait a moment for me, then I will accompany you downstairs."

He surveryed me a moment. "So it is only because you worry for my health?"

"Absolutely. Any distrust I have, old fellow, lies with your circulatory system, not your character."

"Very well. I will indulge your fears this time." Straightening his tie, he leaned against the wall and watched as I quickly finished putting on my waistcoat and tie. "All done? Then let us go. I wouldn't be entirely averse to taking your arm on the stairs, no."

His eyes were heavy-lidded in apathy; he couldn't even try to smile when I made a little joke about the appetizers we had spoken of earlier.

There was one moment, as he was washing his face in his room, where he paused, held the sides of the table and allowed his head to hang. "Watson, there is a definite difference between a celebratory dinner, and one choked by undesired joviality. And I am afraid I've dragged us over that line, old fellow. We cannot celebrate now."

"Not as we were going to, perhaps," I amended, handing him a towel. "But I still say we have cause for a quiet celebration. Do not assume, just because I am not in your position, I don't know what an effort you are making."

He took the towel and dried his face, then flung the towel on his bed and went to hunt up a fresh collar. "Watson…I confess I hardly know head from tail at the moment. I hear your words as sounds, but all is very cloudy and black. Ah! here we are." He nipped up the collar and began to fasten it on. "I am not easily rattled, as you know, but…"

"Yes, we must talk it over. But first let us have something to eat. And that gleaming cart, well it is a hard thing not to be cheered by it, eh? Are you ready now, Holmes? Let us set off."

He nodded curtly, and we adjourned to the sitting room to fetch our hats and coats. He settled his top hat on his head with a cool look, and took up his stick with assurance, but his hand gripped my arm with a desperate tightness as we stepped into the evening, and he was quiet the entire cab ride.

* * *

A/n: When Cocaine is used a good deal over time, the body can't get rid of it all and some is stored in the body; it is released over time during normal metabolism processes and it is as if the person took the drug. Or so my reseach turned up. :p


	26. Dinner Conversation

A/n: Heads up, this is kind of a strange chapter. Heavy on philosophy and theology, I guess is the way to put it.

* * *

I once had care of a man who was subject to fits without warning. I could recognize him in silhouette because of his halting, timid walk; no one else I knew lived in such continuous fear, that any moment his body would betray him. No one else looked about himself every moment, starting at harmless noises—it was as if he felt every eye in the world upon him in judgment.

"Holmes?"

"What! Oh, confound it…Watson, look at this—what a mess…"

"It's nothing, no trouble at all," I assured him quickly, grabbing my napkin and blotting up the water. "I did speak without warning—"

"Oh come off it," he mumbled, rubbing his twitchy hands together. "Waiter, could we possibly have another glass of water? Thank you. Oh—another napkin, too?"

"We'll be ready to order when you return," I added.

"You're optimistic." Holmes sank out of sight behind his menu.

"Does nothing appeal to you, Holmes? Let me see." I moved around the table and sat in the chair next to him. "What about—"

"No."

"I hadn't even said it!"

"I can see where you're looking." He was knotting his napkin into something that resembled a tortured origami swan.

I sighed behind my hand. "Maybe we should have stayed home."

"We said we were going out for dinner, that's all there is to it. What are you having?"

"Potted shrimps, I fancy."

"Hm. Hardly remember what they taste like."

"They're succulent little morsels, Holmes. And with the sauce, and all on crisp toast—"

When the waiter returned, we placed two orders of potted shrimps.

I was enjoying sitting next to Holmes, and thought nothing of it until the two plates were placed side-by-side; I coloured then, getting to my feet. "Dear me, Holmes, I was so absent, I didn't realize I'd—well, I'll move back to my seat of course."

I paused at a pluck on my sleeve, looking round—Holmes was inspecting his shrimp quietly, his left hand just returning to his side.

I sat back down and picked up my fork. I was crunching into the first shrimp, the tiny bite rich with flavor, when I noticed Holmes wasn't really making any attempt to eat; he was stirring the shrimp about, and drawing intricate patterns with a fork tine dipped in sauce. He paused every few seconds, looking over his shoulder, then out the window, then at his own hands.

"Holmes—are you going to try one?"

He shrugged uneasily, leaving off the patterns and starting to make little dots of sauce on the edge of the plate. "Eventually, perhaps." He took a drink of water and glanced at me, lowering his voice as he spoke next. "Well, you should be easier now, Watson."

"How's that?"

"Your work is over. I'm obviously beyond all efforts, for now it controls me."

"No!"

"Yes." He rested his chin on his palm and looked down at his plate. "We buried it, but that was no use. It puppets me from the grave, Watson. Don't feel badly, and don't look like that—it's the way science works: you learn through experimenting. But now we know it's impossible, that I went too far and am a hopeless case. Surely you can see a bright side for yourself? You'll have a good deal more time to read your novels. Who knows but you might write one, without me for once."

He patted my hand with a sad smile, and I felt as if the shrimp I'd eaten had tired of my stomach and decided to crawl back up. "Stop this nonsense," I growled, setting down my fork and fixing him with an icy stare. "We are not giving up, this does not mean it's hopeless."

"Then what does it mean?" He asked quietly.

"I—I don't know. I'm—as baffled as you, Holmes. But we can't give up, look, we're here! You're determined enough—"

"To go out for dinner, yes, it's amazing. I'll be leading revolutions next." He stabbed a shrimp with a sudden thrust. "I'll own I've had little triumphs. But I can't do the impossible, as much as you'd like to think otherwise. I can fight—I'm no coward—but against an impossible foe? Not for long, Watson. I'm only human," he finished in a whisper, looking away.

The clatter of patrons' forks and knives, and happy chatter, easily filled the silence between us, but the hollow in my heart remained. I tried to keep eating, but it was impossible.

"Dr. Watson! And Mr. Holmes, of course!"

I looked round to see Lestrade coming toward us—it was wonderful to see him back in his uniform. "What brings you here, Lestrade?"

"I was on my way to begin a night's work, thought I spied you through the window, well, I couldn't help stopping in to say hello. My arm's better than ever Doctor, you see? I'll always be indebted to you for that."

"I was glad to help, Lestrade. I'm happy for you, I know you've missed your work."

He nodded, looking down a moment. "They were terrible times, I'll own that…over now, thank the Lord! I'd better go, I really can't linger, have a good evening Mr. Holmes! Goodbye."

He swaggered out of the restaurant, and I heard him mention casually to at least two people he had to walk past that he was "just on his way to work."

I turned back around, to see from the corner of my eye that Holmes had set his napkin-ring on its side and was subtly batting it between his hands, rolling it along the table. I watched for a while.

"Holmes?"

He slapped his palm on the ring at my voice. "Yes?"

"It's not—I don't believe it will be this hard, always. It's not like rolling a boulder up a hill, for the rest of your life. Not like Atlas, carrying the world. No one should have to do that."

He looked at me suspiciously. "Why should it be easier? Why not torture for the rest of my days?"

"I refuse to accept that for you, I won't let it happen. And I don't believe it will. It will get easier. It has to, Holmes. And it has been easier, hasn't it, this morning you seemed…your old self, almost. This is only a setback, we've dealt with those. I don't have all the answers, but I believe we will win in the end. Please hold on a little longer."

He lifted his hand from the napkin-ring. "We're gaining momentum, is what you're saying? The hard work stems from inertia, but we've only to bring the pace up, then…"

"Yes! It will be easier then."

He paused, then laughed quietly. "I'm too tired to argue with you, Watson. You've proven yourself many times—why should I doubt you now? And after all—man cannot be happy, not always, anyway, in this world. There's too much…pain, suffering. To go through a shifting of the soul—seeing things light, or darker, is natural. Everything is always changing."

"No darkness is eternal while we live."

"Yes, that's so." He managed a smile. "The dawn will come. No, it is coming. Haven't I felt the rays, today and yesterday? It must be so. The night is almost over."

* * *


	27. Garden Spiders

A/n: I've been dearly wanting to get some Victorian cognitive therapy in here! XD This story is nearing completion, I believe...

* * *

It was Saturday, and Holmes and I sat on the sofa; I refreshing my knowledge of the skeleton from one of my textbooks, and he resting quietly, as we had both expected he would after the strange revisiting of the drug's effects two days ago.

My finger traced a diagram now, my lips moving soundlessly as I mentally checked off all the bones of the appendicular skeleton, down to each metacarpal. I was about to move to the axial when I heard my name murmured, and I set the book aside at once.

"Do you need something, Holmes?"

"Yes, an ear if you can spare it. I've thought of an idea."

I reached over to adjust his afghan more snugly about his shoulders. "I'm listening, go ahead."

"Well, it has occurred to me that the human mind is comparable to spider-webs."

"Spider-webs?"

"I thought you might be surprised at that." He pressed his fingertips together with a sleepy smile of satisfaction. "But it is true, I'm convinced; the brain has similar workings to the most industriously-spun and well-kept dwelling of the common garden spider."

"And—how did you come to this conclusion?"

"By thinking," he said stiffly. "Many great conclusions have been drawn that way, perhaps you should try it sometime. I'm not delirious, Watson, and you insult me by thinking so."

"I'm sorry, Holmes. Please continue your explanations."

He took a moment to allow his ruffled feathers to settle, then gave the indulgent nod of a professor overlooking a student's faults. "Spider-webs are marvelous things, made from concentric polygons, one may say. If you close your eyes, you can see the dewy threads all a-twinkle in the rays of the new sun. Close your eyes, Watson," he added, irked at my apparent lack of immersion in his words. "That's better. You can see it, can't you?"

"Yes."

"Now. Can you imagine that each ring of the web, each family of threads, is akin to a family of thoughts in the brain?"

"I'm not—"

"Haven't you noticed, Watson, that if you allow your mind to wander where it will, you've only to start on one thought to find its family? Think about the sternum. What comes next?"

"You mean, what bones are attached to it?"

"No, I mean what does it remind you of?"

"I suppose the ribs—the lungs, respiratory system…"

"Aha! You see? You've spun quite a ways already! And yet you could have begun to think about the skeleton in general and how it moves, the various joints. So we see that different objects and ideas can be in multiple thought families at once. Now, you wonder what all this means?"

I opened my eyes. "I'm at a loss."

"It's simple. If a spider was on a part of the web he did not like, what would he do?"

"I suppose he'd move to a part he liked better."

"Exactly! Exactly, Watson, and the same for the mind. If you find yourself in a thought-family which brings you to despair—as, for instance, if you found yourself fixating on how many types of respiratory ailments are known to man—you leap, as agile as a spider, to a new thought-family! It is possible, I've been practicing this morning. Well? What do you think?"

"I'm not sure, Holmes. Can you really become conscious of something as vague and delicate as the stream of thought—and even control it?"

"I'll own it's difficult," he said at last with a dark look. "To fling yourself to a new thought-grouping takes a certain foolhardy courage, as a trapeze artist may feel on his first flight through the air. You have no way of knowing where you'll end up, exactly, and once you get there it feels foreign. As you said, it's taking a conscious look at something normally hidden from intentional thought. It is—it is living two levels in the mind and by Jove, it's hard! To let the mind wander, while getting ready to poke it if it crawls where it oughtn't…to try to do something that takes no effort…dear me!"

"But it is possible, you say?"

"Oh, certainly, certainly. It only takes tremendous mental focus, and I've no shortage of that. And—well, it doesn't have to be perfect, does it?"

For a moment the self-assurance in his eyes faltered, and he smiled timidly at me.

"Of course it doesn't have to be perfect," I said firmly. "And if it seems to be working, that's a great discovery. In fact, tell me what you think of my idea, now. Do you suppose that some problems have no single solution, rather there are many different instruments that are effective against different stages or parts of the problem?"

He squinted his eyes thoughtfully. "Most intriguing, Watson…who knows but it may be true?"

I had been enjoying our conversation, but now I felt a pang of worry as he tried to hide a yawn, and did a terrible job of it. After turning the strange matter of his involuntary relapse over a dozen times, I had concluded that it was some strange symptom resulting from over-stressed nerves, and I had determined to keep him calm and avoid excitement.

"Perhaps that's enough of this subject for now," I said after a moment, picking up my book. "Why don't you rest your eyes for a little?"

"Just for a minute, I suppose." He curled up in the corner of the sofa, and after a moment he gave a sleepy chuckle. "Watson? D'you remember what Lestrade said, about--changing my mind and all that? Redesigning it?"

"Yes."

"Well--it seemed impossible to me at the time, at least, far too abstract a concept to master, but who would have thought it all comes down to spiders?"

"Who indeed," I mused, but I was speaking to myself, for Holmes was already fast asleep.


	28. The End

A/n: The final chapter. To my reviewers--your support has meant everything to me. Thank you so much, I hope you enjoyed this story. I learned much about history, writing, and Holmes through it. Thank you once again! ^.^

* * *

I was relaxing on the sofa with a yellowback when Holmes poked his head out of his door and cleared his throat.

"There you are, Holmes! What's been occupying you all day?"

"I've been—studying." Holmes ran his finger around his necktie and moved into the sitting room. "Watson, I had something to ask you."

"Go ahead."

"Do you think that in the last week or so—that's to say, have you noticed…ah, to be frank, have I gained weight?"

"Just a little, Holmes; after all your appetite has been better lately. Don't take it badly, you look all the better for it."

He fiddled with the buttons of his waistcoat. "You mean that?"

"Of course I do. And you still fit in your clothes, don't you."

He tried to smile, though now he was fidgeting with his watch-chain.

"Are you unhappy about it?" I asked after a long pause.

"Not—unhappy, exactly. Only…"

"A bit uncomfortable?"

"Well--yes, but how did you know? Ah, I remember now. And I still say it was twelve pounds you put on," he joked nervously.

"Seven or twelve, I got used to it. And Holmes, don't worry yourself; you look fine. I'll still call you 'austere' in my stories."

"I suppose I should count my blessings," Holmes muttered.

I took a breath. "Holmes, I wonder if you're feeling uncomfortable in your mind, as well."

"What makes you say that?" He asked after a brief silence.

"It's only logical, your mind is where you spend the most time. Changing it about is likely to cause disorientation."

"It's difficult, I'll admit. But it has been getting easier. I've refined my garden spider method, by the way; I find it should only be used in extreme distress of mind. Usually it's most effective to simply kill the fly that threatens the thread, and move on with my thinking."

"Well, that's good. And you're still writing in the book when you get inspiration?" I patted the couch cushion beside me.

He sat down hesitantly. "Yes—and I looked at the beginning recently, the earlier entries. I was surprised to recall how dark things were before. How dark they were even when—when I had not long stopped."

"The dark times are easy to forget when it suits our purpose. Truthfully, Holmes, I think life is made of cycles; day and night, waking and sleeping, times of mental stimulation and quieter days. Cocaine only adds a new cycle, one of moods—up and down—and it takes a toll on the body and mind. It also detracts from appreciating the other cycles, such as the seasons."

* * *

I reflected on Watson's words, and could not deny that much of the world was made of patterns. Even leaves and fruit follow a strict pattern by ripening and growing each summer, only to fall to the ground in autumn. _The trees_…my mind dwelt on them now, pondering their life. They flourished, burst into lush foliage in spring, matured in summer and dazzled in autumn—only to lose everything at the end, shivering naked through the grey slush of winter. They grew new leaves, yes—but not without a time of bereavement. Then, in spring, they shone anew with waxing buds.

When Watson asked what I was thinking, I ventured to tell him my analysis in a very few words.

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Winter is when the trees take time to nourish themselves; that would be studying and experiments for you, or taking a holiday. The tree may not be showing anything overtly, but it's still growing and developing inside. What do you think, Holmes?"

I shifted. "Yes, yes I suppose I agree. But Watson, I've been meaning to ask. Do you recall the time I was on the couch, this couch, and you handed me a blanket, only—it was your own? Well, how did it get to be here?"

He looked into the fire when he spoke. "I tried not to worry too much about you, but--sometimes I couldn't help it, I had to creep downstairs and sleep on the couch, in case you needed me. I would try to go back up before you awoke, but one morning I overslept, and didn't have time to take the blanket with me."

"Watson…"

"It doesn't matter now. What matters is how hard you've worked, and how far you've come." His face was alight. "Holmes--I'm very proud of you, you know. Even if you never solved another case, I'd still be proud of you."

"That is one thing that shan't be put to the test. I'm certain that something in the morning paper will prove of interest, no matter how small."

We sat in silence for an hour or so, quietly watching the fire turn to red embers, greying at last to ash. I would venture one more question before the evening ended, only one more. I would simply say it, as I said any other remark or query--it would be easy.

However it was in fact some time before I forced the faltering words from my lips.

"Is it dead, Watson, or merely asleep?"

He sank deep into thought before speaking, and when he spoke 'twas in a voice he rarely used. "I hope it is dead, Holmes. But if it is sleeping, and if it does wake, I promise you won't face it alone, not if I'm on this earth."

I nodded quietly, sitting back against the couch and absorbing the paradox. Only he knows the full extent of my weaknesses, and only I am familiar with his strengths.

Perhaps one day I would write his private biography, so he could hold in his hands what was written in my mind. My eyes rested upon the empty space on the mantle as I thought of this; the firelight reflected off the wood with a faint glow and it all seemed quite peaceful, and still.

_The End_

* * *


End file.
